She wanted to check for new entries which might explain these events. If her mother had been more vigilant in checking the journal she may have foreseen her own murder. It occurred to Nem that owning the book was a double-edged sword, the equivalent of simultaneously holding a genie’s lamp in one hand and a ticking bomb in the other.

A quote she’d read somewhere came to mind.

There is frequently a poison in fortune's gifts.

Of course that only applied if you didn’t own the key to the gift maker.

62

William returned to Orelia’s house, a pit in his stomach, uncertain whether she’d arrived before him. From this vantage the thick foliage around the property protected her home from view. The only way he would know was if he saw her come or go. So he settled down to perform the activity in which he was now an expert.

He waited. And watched for nearly six hours. Every twenty minutes he’d check his phone to just fill in time, but he couldn’t become too absorbed as he needed to watch the gate.

He would read Google news, glancing up every few lines, or visit her Amazon page to check her books’ rankings—old habits die hard.

Now and then, it would occur to him he may have overlooked a way to gain access. Then he would stroll the perimeter for the umpteenth time, only to decide yet again the high, brick walls were impassable. At least to him.

The only entrance appeared to be through the front double driveway gate. The wrought iron metalwork with vines and dozens of flowers, entwined between thick, black bars, wouldn’t look misplaced guarding a gothic mansion. The pointed stakes of the gate, though climbable, still presented the problem of visibility from the road. He’d noted security cameras too.

Despite morphing into a far more agile version of himself in the café bathroom, this transformation did not stretch to scaling challenging walls, barehanded. Forget traveling at flash speed over a gate; he was too old he thought.

In his possession were the keys to her house but not the front entrance. The gate clicker must have been in her car. If he could only find a way onto the grounds, he had a chance of gaining access to her home and finding the book. That’s if it was inside. It had to be, he told himself, if only to stay positive.

But he needed to know if she was in the house, and then if she left, he must be assured she’d be out long enough for him to search. His first thought was that he’d simply wait for her to leave, then take the risk on timing. Then it occurred to him Orelia would do what any wise person would: change her locks. So the time remaining for using the keys might run out.

Becoming a thief so far had only half-worked, and half wasn’t good enough. His moment of criminal glory continued to replay in his mind. The hand reaching out as if it didn’t belong to him. The feel of the bag straps as he pulled it toward himself, disbelieving he was doing this. Her scream of surprise. Boy, did he love that sound. Even a small win was wonderful.