Morris’ last words about her played through his mind again.

Get away, forget me, forget… please, you don’t want to mess with her.

What did he mean? What did she do to the man? Kind of obvious, really. If she distributed misfortune, then falling in a river and drowning pretty much trumped most bad luck. He wondered what the agent did to deserve his fate. Then again, what had he? A simple argument amid the tremendous support he’d given her. This hole in which he found himself was so far from where he’d seen himself only three short years ago. He saw the headlines:

One hit wonder best selling author convicted of murdering his agent.

That’s what lay in his future if he did not take the initiative and fight back. He saw destiny coming toward him like a freight train through the fog. Someone could place him at the river and they’d trace the reviews and phone calls and everything else he’d done. Then bang-bang, his life would explode as surely as if she’d pulled a trigger or hired a hitman.

No, he wouldn’t wait for that to happen. He’d be the one to act first. Go on the offensive.

One problem though. How to do that without drawing any suspicion to himself for Morris’ murder. So maybe he should do the thing at which he’d always considered himself a superb talent.

Watching. Waiting. Remaining patient. The necessary qualities of an author. You must be a keen observer and maintain the fire of curiosity, even when you’d seen most everything. A person’s movement or expression said more than their words. As a writer, it was his job to find those words.

He needed to follow, watch and work out exactly what was happening and why Morris feared his star client. He was no private detective, but he’d run out of ideas. In fact, he couldn’t think of any others. He had to do something to solve this because he couldn’t write, he barely slept, and his life now involved looking over his shoulder for the police, or her, or something coming for him.

He’d never publish again unless he reversed the curse which weighed on his shoulders as surely as if he wore an oxen brace. Orelia Mason might think she’d killed two birds with one stone with Morris’ death but she figured wrong. Whether she was a witch or a clever fraud, so far she had played this game well. William had certainly been taken unaware, but no more. He had no life at all since she’d entered it, so what did he have to lose?

39

Nem realized now the bright light was only sunshine streaming through the hospital window. A tube ran from a small band-aid just above her wrist to an IV bag. Greg, sitting on the edge of her bed, looked sadder than she’d ever seen him.

“Don’t say it,” she said, moving her hand from his to the covers above her stomach.

He leaned to her and kissed her lips. His breath smelled minty and was warm against her skin. While his eyes never left hers, Nem’s mind traveled to the place before this, where everything was wonderful. That would change the minute he said the words. If only she could stay there in that moment where her future held potential. The safe, undamaged moment. Maybe she brought this upon herself. Bad fortune bouncing back at her.