No, you wouldn’t, he told himself. You’d just be sitting there plotting against Orelia. Obsessing like a lunatic.

But he couldn’t give up now because he’d invested too much time already. Quitting now meant nothing would change. He’d still be a has-been writer with no contract, beaten by her, the woman who had taken his generosity and repaid him with hell.

Oh and don’t forget, you’ll probably end up in jail when the cops work out you were the last person to see your ex-agent alive.

Yes, and there was that too. He must work out her connection to Morris’ death.

Okay, he must be smarter than this. He was smarter than this. How the heck did he write an award-winning novel if he didn’t have a little brain-power happening up there?

Think like a mystery thriller writer, William. What would a detective do?

He’d visit the scene of the crime and interview witnesses.

Right, good idea in theory but no crime scene in his case. Just the results. His career, murdered before his very eyes, ex-agent deceased, and who knew who or what else damaged or destroyed.

So Morris, what happened?

No interviewing a dead guy. His lips are sealed.

He pulled out his Orelia notepad. So named because he only used it to jot down his thoughts on her. (If anyone ever found it, he’d be incarcerated in either a prison or an asylum.)

Where was the page of the last words poor Morris made before he went for his final swim?

The flipping of the pages sounded loud and alien in the peaceful woods. William looked around for a moment, wondering if this simple act had alerted her to his whereabouts. He was tired, jumpy and thinking like a scared, afraid-of-the-dark teenager.

He cast his gaze around, imagining something green and terrifying loping toward him out of the tree line. Goosebumps rose on his arms. But nope, no creature to tear him to pieces, just trees and bush and goddamn ants that seemed attracted to him as if he was a rotting corpse. Maybe they knew something he didn’t. Dead-man-walking scenario.

He finally found the page and began to read Morris’ words he’d jotted down.

“I’m afraid if I say more, I’ll be in danger. So many have ended up damaged, ruined. We, we, shit, we argued…”

“She knows what you’re doing. She’s unforgiving. And dangerous.”

“We argued,” sprang at him as if written in fluorescent bold red.

Morris and she fought too. Just like he and Orelia. What disagreement was so enormous as to end his life? That’s if he believed in the theory Orelia was somehow behind his death.

And did he?

Yes, crazy as that sounded, he did.

Why did he keep questioning himself?

Because if he told anyone about any of this, they’d be making an appointment for him with a shrink. He just knew things though. Feelings that simmered in his blood, in the air around him. Something about her had always been off, as if invisible, energy waves surrounded her, and he wondered why others didn’t see or feel it.