58

Nine days straight William had arisen early to return late in the evening so exhausted he couldn’t sleep. Accustomed to a quiet, solitary life, an absolute necessity for a writer, the constant navigation of public transport and crowded streets drained him.

Despite Orelia’s penchant for crisscrossing town on her travels, there was one habit of hers she’d changed since poor Jan. Here he saw his perfect chance to get the book. He didn’t like to think of anything anymore as chance because if he didn’t get his hands on it, then he had nothing. Since realizing the importance of the journal, he’d become resolute in his determination to stop this woman and free himself from her curse.

Her early morning travels in the last two days had altered. Instead of taking a bus to distant, random suburbs, each morning she now drove to the same café, not far from her home. She also visited a bank twice.

To count her money and jewels perhaps?

Sometimes he was facetious because it made this whole thing seem normal, as if following a rival author was the most natural thing in the world, and joking made it so.

Outside the eatery, two small barriers cordoned off a section of pavement. Metal hurdles sprung to mind. Eight tables with shade umbrellas filled the space, along with potted ferns and several long flower boxes filled with red and white blooms.

William settled himself across the road in a diner with a perfect window view. He was grateful that this phase of surveillance offered food, drink and a comfortable seat. As he watched, he could almost enjoy himself, if he didn’t feel a nudge of anger at her sitting there enjoying the sunshine without a care in the world.

She’d created a makeshift writing space. He’d read the incredible Orelia Mason was working on the fourth book in her series. The original was the one which had cemented her success, not the one he’d helped her with but the next. Although by the time the series began, she was already well on her way.

She released three books a year and that mystified him. Most writers weren’t permitted more than the one, with limited available publishing slots each month due to marketing and printing schedules, and full author lists. How did her publisher—the same one who’d dumped him—accommodate so many releases? He’d never heard of it happening before, except maybe with Nora Roberts or Stephen King; but they’d been around forever. She was a newbie starting out, and yet she had been treated like a star right from the beginning.

Alongside a glass of water and a pitcher on the table, she had placed pencils and paper taken from her bag. What a nice set-up; a comfortable office with a view and coffee only a hand wave away.

He noted after two days, her habit was to drink three coffees and eat toast with a side-bowl of cereal and fruit. This was now the third day she’d missed her donation runs, foregoing them to write at the café in the morning. On the prior two days she would return home after lunch. The only time she arose, in the hours she sat there, was to go inside once; he presumed to use the bathroom.