But it was empty. She wondered why. She’d always assumed the power would encompass everybody who wronged her. That’s how it had seemed to work in the past.

There were plenty of entries related to the dirty homeless people, but she’d swapped most of those to protect herself and continue with her most recent hobby, obsession if she was being frank.

At least the police hadn’t come back. They’d said they would be in touch. Two detectives questioned her on the contract dispute with Morris. This surprised her with the issue only being in the early stages of legal discussion. A pest to the end, her agent must have something in his files, or his assistant had said something.

To the officers, she downplayed her anger at what he’d done, brushing it off as nothing when measured with her success. They appeared satisfied, but she needed to give that a brushstroke of luck to ensure they didn’t return.

She needed to find another agent. Thanks to the diary or the publishing industry grapevine, two well-known managers had made contact since the news of Morris’ death.

Right now though, her main worry was William Barnes. His image in the CCTV video from the river park caused a throb of concern in her mind. Nobody ever came back at her. That was because she’d been careful after high school to not create bad luck entries for people she knew. She’d been good. Careful. Until William.

That’s where the growing art collection—the obsession—fit in her life. Her careful purchases went a long way in helping to control her feelings. When she stared at a magnificent picture, she became lost, transported into a realm filled with color and dazzling beauty. This serenity entered her core, her subconscious, and took her on a journey to a happy place. Emotions kept in check, the beast soothed by the poetry of color.

This is another reason she lived in seclusion and ensured everything in her home pleased her, as if placating a troubled child with a myriad of desired toys. The more she owned, the more she saw her purchases as a necessity.

She lay on the bed and stared at the stunning pastel of a woman with a parasol by Jose Trujillo; his work captured the texture of a Monet with the esthetic of more modern scenes. The gallery owner assured her the artist’s fame was on the rise and his pieces were a solid investment. Each artist she’d chosen to collect bore similar strokes and style to the masters, Van Gogh, Matisse, even Da Vinci.

To find a talent awaiting discovery thrilled her because this was her own experience. Throughout her life she had possessed a hidden gift for telling stories; it just needed to be discovered. So these artists were kindred spirits.

Trujillo and the others in her collection only required a line in the journal for her investment to bear fruit.

As she stared up at the woman in the picture, she felt drawn in, her breath becoming slower, the tension in her body releasing. The affront of the boldness of someone taking her property melted away. She wondered if the brunette with the loose-pulled bun, wearing the crisp, white dress had been happy in that moment. She looked contented.