She might have known about this sooner but she’d had no reason to check in the diary over the last few months. In fact, when nothing extraordinary happened in her life, she could very nearly forget it existed. She’d also been a little afraid to see if anything else had appeared against Lacy’s name.

She knew now if she looked in the diary, she’d find an entry for Peg with a little plus sign. Lady Luck had nothing to do with this win or Nem’s adoption, and she wondered what kind of bad luck Lacy would receive for this gift. For whatever luck was coming for her ex-best friend, the one thing she could predict with her own fortune-telling skills was that it wasn’t going to be good.

24

A stress incident is what the doctor called William’s heart attack. Orelia had been right. Low blood sugars and the lost weight (he hadn’t noticed) were contributing factors. Typical, she would learn about this before him.

“Follow up with your regular doctor,” said the young female physician who looked barely old enough to hold a thermometer.

William wouldn’t see anyone because he knew what would fix his health problems and alleviate his stress. The cure was not rest, eating better and anti-depressants, as they’d suggested.

He’d seen that writer on 60 Minutes who’d been involved in those mass killings talking about the link between SSRIs and violence. She called herself a messenger or something equally profound.

Well, he had a message for Orelia Mason. Get out of his life because he didn’t need chemicals to contemplate violence.

Seeing the witch in person, while a very painful thing, infused him with a passion to finally end this tussle and change his destiny. She meant him harm. All the success she’d achieved with her pathetic romance stories, had been stolen from him and drained away to fill her coffers. Her indifference to his pain from the loss filled him with only one emotion: hate.

While for months he hadn’t been able to face writing anything fictional, it surprised him, as he scribbled on his notepad, how easily he created a plan. After four rewrites, the results pleased and encouraged him. In fact, he felt tingles of excitement; if nothing else he could be proud of his resilience. Most would have given up and admitted defeat by now.

He read through the pages several times and even though he wasn’t a thriller writer, he certainly had the mind for crime. The only fear was that when the time came, he would not be able to bring himself to go through with it.

When questions crept into his thoughts, he only needed to think of her book ranking high in the Amazon charts and the New York Times Best Seller list. Throw in her chipper voice reciting “I’m living the dream” and he knew he’d do anything it took to stop her.

Just this morning, fate had sent him a message via the newspaper. In an article in the literary section, there was good old Morris the-betrayer-agent, suave in his double-breasted suit and smarmy smile. Some stupid journalist had written a piece on him.