A trip over a curb or a fall down the stairs. A broken arm or leg. Anything minor, anything from which you could recover. What about if the girl’s hair fell out? She laughed to herself and that broke the spell and released the pressure.

So she begged because she’d never tried that before. She’d always just let the diary have its way. Yes, it might accept her written suggestions on occasion but most times it seemed to interpret them however it saw fit.

Okay, let’s go with that please. Please, please let Angie Capel lose her hair.

The little wheels rolled—tic-tic, ticktock—and moved, as the magical power of the diary shifted and spun, until it found its slot. To her, it felt as if one piece moved, so another could align and serendipity could spin a different version of the person’s life. A worse version they wouldn’t enjoy.

When she turned her head to face her tormentor, her anger evaporated like a puff of steam. Angie didn’t understand this round was lost and that she’d never stood a chance.

“Things won’t end well if you don’t leave me alone,” Nem whispered. She instantly regretted the melodramatics because it only served to prove the taunts true: she did sound like a weirdo.

“Not end well for you maybe, weir-die-woo!” laughed Angie.

She thought to say something eloquent but there was nothing more to add that would make sense to anyone but her. Angie would soon eat humble pie if the diary accepted her wish. See how confident she felt when things didn’t go her way.

In Nem’s mind she saw the girl bald and crying in her bed and that gave her some satisfaction.

When the girl’s hair did fall out in big clumps, revealing patches of white scalp, Nem wasn’t sorry in the beginning. Later though, when she learned the cause of Angie’s baldness, it did cross her mind, she’d made another mistake.

Hair falling out was a side-effect of chemo-therapy, and she hadn’t considered this when she’d begged for the diary to deliver her wish. On the bright side, she had learned a valuable lesson. Never underestimate the power of anger or the diary.

30

When William first noticed the figure sitting on the bench beside the river, the intrusion into his plans annoyed him. He wanted to be alone to think. He wanted to take out the gun, hold it in his hand, and play with the idea that wouldn’t let him alone: that the small weapon snuggled in his pocket was a way out of the disappointing mess of his life.

He’d wandered around the park for a half-hour, dodging casual strolling people by slipping into the trees and bushes by the pathway. If someone was stalking him, he must have looked ridiculous. Unsure what he intended to do, he wanted to remain unnoticed.

By the time he slipped from the tree line, shadows had begun to flow over the landscape and alter the peaceful atmosphere to one better suited to a late-night thriller.