He was now alone with his thoughts and a book he believed might help him recover his life. But was there a downside to even touching the thing? Like living near power transmission towers where your chances of cancer increase? Or working in a disease center where you must take heavy precautions to prevent your own infection?

Many questions and nobody to ask.

He checked his watch. Over an hour since he’d left her house. By now she could have learned of the theft, but would she realize it was him? Any of her victims could be the culprit. He wondered if she possessed a connection to the book, an invisible thread that could lead her to him. Sitting here in such peaceful surroundings he should feel happy and pleased with coming this far. He’d managed to get hold of the book, to discover more than he could have imagined. Instead, all he felt was fear.

With that thought, a shadowy feeling seeped into his subconscious. He felt as though the book knew him, wanted what he could offer. Fog drifted through his mind and pulled him toward a billowy cloud of gray nothingness. A dream-like, pleasant ambience settled over him and carried him to a wonderful calm place. This perhaps akin to a drug addict’s experience with the first hit.

He fought the desire to open the book and continue looking at the pages. The most intelligent action would be to destroy the thing and forget it ever existed. Fate, luck, whatever force of nature it controlled, should be only at destiny’s whim or God’s, if he existed. This power did not belong in human hands and especially not hers. She’d proved herself a poor caretaker. Human nature might be such that nobody could ever be considered a wise custodian.

He sat for a minute, feeling as if his skin crawled with tiny invisible creatures, worrying that the power had contaminated him already.

In his mind’s eye he saw her luxurious home, the paintings, the interviews on the morning shows. He recalled the pure jealousy and hatred which raged inside him at her good fortune. How he had wanted the same success. Look how he’d been transformed by his own uncontrolled emotions.

Everything he envied of hers had been achieved through using others. He had watched her star rise. Back then he’d have done anything to achieve the same success. But he couldn’t allow himself to take that success from others, and he didn’t want to tempt fate right now. So, no, he wouldn’t keep the book.

But he would use it one time. To put things right. Surely, once wouldn’t hurt?

An idea had settled in his mind after reading the entries, but he was concerned. He had seen the diary’s owners slide down a dangerous path after a single use, slipping into a life of wronging neighbors for their own gain.

How would he execute this vague plan?

The six previous owners’ entries flowed through his mind, the different writing styles, the names of those they’d besieged with this power. A strange notation, the only exchange like it in the writings, between one owner and the next. That kept bouncing around in his thoughts.