The Curse: The Butterfly Effect, Book 2.

by Margaret McHeyzer

  He continues to squeeze his hands around her neck, shaking her lifeless body.

  He continues for a few more seconds, and I struggle to get my own breath.

  When he lets go of her, he looks down at his dead wife. “Shit, what have I done?” he mumbles softly to himself. “Sweetheart?” He grabs her by the shoulders and shakes her limp body. “Sweetheart?” he says again.

  He gets off the sofa, and paces nervously.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” he mumbles as he keeps pacing. Raking his hand through his thinning hair he looks around the room. Stopping his back and forth, he looks over to the kitchen counter. He grabs the incriminating photo and stuffs it in his pocket.

  He’s in panic mode now. I’ve seen it in other cases I’ve worked on. It’s what they all do when they kill out of anger; they go into a panic and try to conceal their involvement.

  I watch as the senator frantically tries to cover his act of violence by cleaning up the crime scene. When he finishes cleaning the spilled drink, he heads out to the backyard, where he lights the grill, takes the photo out of his pocket, and holds it over the fire.

  He leaves the picture to burn, turns off the grill, and heads back inside. I stand over the picture, and watch as the flame dies out before the picture is fully destroyed. The top quarter is still intact. You can clearly make out faces, his and the other woman’s in throes of passion. The breeze picks up the light paper and flies it away to lodge on one of the shrubs lining the fence.

  I make my way back inside to find the senator cleaning everything again. He’s finished stacking the dishwasher, and now he’s stuffing the envelope the photo arrived in down the garbage disposal. He runs the water, making sure it’s gone.

  It’s all I need to see.

  He killed her, and he’s trying to make it look like he didn’t.

  I take myself out of the past, and bring myself to the present.

  “The pleasure is all mine, Senator,” I say as I let go of his hand and head toward the door. Turning to Emmett I smile. “He killed her. He choked her on the sofa. He spilled his drink on the dining room table, and noticed she was crying. She was crying because someone sent her a photo of him and some young woman having sex. He tried to burn the photo out on the grill. Only, not all of it burned. You’ll find part of it stuck in the shrubs in front of the fence.”

  The senator’s face droops, his eyes wide, and his mouth gaping. “How . . . ?”

  “He used to beat her too; she was frightened of him. He’s a piece of shit. I’m sure he’ll be welcomed in jail.”

  I walk out of the room and close the door behind me.

  Jude smiles and casually drapes my jacket over my shoulders. Reaching for his hand, I choose to hold back on being in his vision.

  I’m rapidly becoming an expert in my ability. I can see the future, and I now have the ability to see in the past. I once thought what I was given was a gift, then I hated it and thought it was a curse.

  But now I know exactly what I am.

  I am lethal.

  When I finished my first book, HiT 149, I got an idea for a story about a seventeen-year-old girl who walks past a man and sees his future. That was the entire premise. I thought to myself, Margaret, you’re delusional, because no one will want to read a book about a teenage girl.

  Fast forward to today, four years after HiT 149, and I’ve completed a story about a seventeen-year-old girl who walks past a man and sees his future. This has been an amazing journey for me, because I’ve come to learn so much about myself and writing.

  I love pushing boundaries, and I love how my readers can all be taken on a ride with me. These two books are no different. I’ve never written urban fantasy, and I had no idea if I could write it.

  But what I do know is how much I love these characters.

  Alexa is what I love about all my female leads. She’s strong, she’s sassy, she’s brave, and she won’t stop fighting for what she believes in.

  As an author, I don’t get much choice in what I write. I let my characters tell the story. I’m simply the medium they use to communicate. I’ve been asked why I don’t stick to one genre when writing. The answer is simple. I can’t. I want to allow my characters to tell me the story they want to tell. To open themselves and give me all of them, so I can share them with you.

  I hope you’ve enjoyed The Gift and The Curse as much as I did creating them. To my readers, existing and new, thank you for being here with me. If it wasn’t for you wanting to read my books, I doubt my characters would be as vocal as they are.

  I also really want to say thank you to some important people who’ve made my voyage in the authoring world exceptionally fun and meaningful.

  To my dear editor who’s been a part of making these books read the best they can. Debi Orton, you put up with me and my Aussie terms, and help convert them into American terms everyone can understand. You’re always there if I need to ask a question. You take my words, and make them beautiful without changing the voice of my characters.

  To my sweet formatter, Tami Norman from Integrity Formatting. Boy, doesn’t she do an amazing job to bring my words to life? She spends hours finding the right images to fit the stories, and always presents them in the most gorgeous of ways.

  To my girls, my proofreaders. Terry, Cheryl, Sam and Mandy. Thank you for taking the time to read my books and send me any errors we may have missed. Having you on board has been wonderful.

  To Kylie from Give Me Books. Kylie works tirelessly to help me promote my books for cover reveal and release day blitzes. Kylie always manages to fit me in whenever I ask her, and for that I’m so grateful.

  To Kellie from Book Cover by Design. Just WOW. I sent her an image of what I wanted for The Gift and The Curse, and she told me it wasn’t going to work. So, she came back with something else, and that something else was by far the best covers I’ve seen. She is amazing, and incredibly talented.

  To Jodi. Jodi, Jodi, Jodi. She’s my sounding board, and the one who reins me in when the sadistic part of me wants to make my characters bleed. She’s there on the end of the phone, telling me off for putting my characters through hell. She’s a pretty cool chick, she’ll keep.

  To my family. My mum, husband, and kids. You guys put up with all my craziness, and let me go off on my own tangents when my brain won’t stop thinking and the voices keep talking.

  Family is important, but most of all, my family is the most important thing to me. I write these books knowing my kids will read them, and I hope I can make them proud of the words on the paper.

  To my good friends who are always there when I need something. Lyndal, Bek, Terry, Megan, and Tina. I love you girls. You always have my back. I’m truly blessed to have you in my life.

  To two girls who always have my back, and are there when I need them. Anna and Kimmy.

  But lastly, to you. You make the voices in my head happy. You make my heart sing. YOU are the reason I write.

  ’Til next time.

  Margaret

  Keep reading for a preview of

  Dying Wish

  Mistrust; and

  Ugly

  As I lie in my bed, with only the persistent ticking of the wall clock to keep me company, memories of the night I fell in love flood every fiber of my being.

  It could have been destiny, or fate, or perhaps it was my life path. Whatever it was, it was meant to be.

  We were meant to be.

  A smile slowly stretches my face and remembered happiness pushes the dull ache down deep inside.

  That night my mind tried to reason with me, telling me soulmates didn’t exist. That night, my heart spoke back to define what a soulmate truly is. Sometimes they come in the form of a partner, sometimes in the form of a friend.

  I was one of the lucky ones to have two soulmates: my beautiful and incredibly spirited best friend, Becky, and my handsome boyfriend, Elijah.

  Not only were they my soulmates, I was theirs.

  And this is our story . . . />
  Trust is something that has to be earned. It’s not freely given.

  There are some people in our lives we automatically trust. We believe everything our parents say and do. We know their actions and instincts are always to protect and teach us.

  We learn to trust those with whom we develop a bond of friendship.

  Strangers don’t have our trust. We’re wary of them; we keep them at arm’s length until they prove themselves to us.

  Trust, once earned, can also be ripped away. That can happen over a period of time or in an instant.

  Tonight I’ll discover how cruel the world can be when trust is brutally torn away…

  It’s days like today I wish I was dead.

  “Lily Anderson, you get your ugly ass out here right this minute. Don’t make me come after you,” Daddy screams.

  He’s so angry. I knew the moment I heard him come home from work I was in for it. I was in my bedroom, lying on the floor trying to do my math. He slammed the front door so hard the windows in my room shook.

  And then I knew, I knew I was in for it.

  “Lily Anderson!” he yells again.

  As soon as I heard him yell I ran to my hiding spot. I’m inside the closet in the hallway, wedged as far into the corner as I can get. Mom’s old coat hangs in front of me and I can still smell a faint waft of the perfume she used to wear.

  “Lily Anderson!” he shouts. I can hear the anger in his voice and I can already feel the pain he’s going to inflict on me when he opens the closet door. I know what’s coming.

  I close my eyes tight, scrunching them up so no light can seep through. I put my hands over my ears so I can’t hear him.

  “I swear to God; if I have to find you, you will not sit for a month.”

  My knees are folded into my chest. I’m trying to make myself small, invisible, so he forgets I’m here. I’m rocking myself, trying to block out what he’s saying.

  School is safe. School is safe. School is safe. I keep repeating the mantra because in a few short hours I’ll be back at school. Maybe tomorrow I can go to the library after school, stay there until it closes and then sneak in after Dad’s passed out, because he’s had too much to drink.

  It was never like this before.

  I’m twelve years old and I can remember when Mom, Dad, and I were all happy. But that was years ago. It’s been a long time since there’s been any happiness in this house.

  Well, before Mom died, and not a day since.

  Mom died when I was nine. I don’t remember much about her, except I remember her telling me how ugly I am. How life would be better if I were taken away from them. How I’ll never be anything, because I’m stupid and ugly.

  Sometimes I dream happy things. Like me, Mom, Dad and a little blond-haired boy all going for a picnic. The sun beamed down on us as we played outside and laughed. We’d eat yummy sandwiches Mom made for us, and we’d drink homemade lemonade. We’d spend hours outside, laughing and talking and just having fun. Mom would tell me how pretty I am, and how much she loved me. She would play with my hair, braid it, and then we’d go and pick bright flowers to take home and put in a vase. Dad would smile and call us “his girls”, always kissing Mom and hugging me. Dad would put the little boy on his shoulders and run around the park, trying to catch the clouds.

  I love those dreams, and I hold onto them; wishing they were real. But I’ve never had a mom like that, and my dad doesn’t talk much unless it’s with his fists, or to tell me how ugly and useless I am.

  I feel him walking around the house. The floorboards creak and the vibrations from his footsteps come through the floor to where my bottom is. I close my eyes tighter and try and breathe as quietly as I can.

  Please go away, Daddy. Please go away.

  My heart is beating so fast. My hands are shaking and I’m trying really hard not to think about what’s going to happen the minute he opens the closet door.

  Shhh, it’s so quiet. The only sound is my heart thrumming in my ears. Nothing else. Not a whisper, not a rattle…nothing.

  Maybe Daddy’s left. Maybe he’s gone to the pub to have a few drinks. Maybe, just maybe, he’s left...forever.

  I take a deep breath and just relax for a moment. My shoulders drop and I finally stop rocking.

  Slowly I take my hands down from my ears, and I’m so happy because I can’t hear him yelling at me. I can’t hear him at all.

  Gradually, I begin to unscrunch my eyes from the way I’ve tightly closed them. But something’s not right. There’s light coming into the closet.

  I don’t even get a chance to open them fully before a rough hand reaches in, latches onto my ponytail and yanks.

  “I told you it’d be worse for you if I had to find you,” Dad says, as he drags me out of the closet by my hair.

  I’m desperately trying to hold onto my head so he doesn’t rip my hair out. My feet are trying to find traction on the dirty floorboards.

  “Please, Daddy. Please. You’re hurting me,” I begin sobbing as I plead with him.

  “Then your ugly ass should’ve come when I called you, you stupid bitch. You’re fucking worthless, you ugly idiot,” he says. But now his voice is calm as he continues to drag me toward the family room.

  That’s when he’s most scary. When his voice is low and his eyes are filled with hate.

  He throws me against the side of the sofa and takes a step back to look at me.

  I look up and can see he’s the angriest I’ve ever seen him. “You dumb, ugly piece of shit,” he says, as he paces back and forth in front of me.

  “Sorry, Daddy. Whatever I did, I’m so sorry.” I cower into myself, trying to make myself as small as possible.

  “You’re just too fucking stupid, aren’t you?” he spits toward me as he brings his hand up to scratch at his chin.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again. Tears are falling hot and fast down my cheeks. My head hurts from where he was pulling my hair, but I don’t dare try to rub the spot.

  “You ugly fuck.” He kicks a boot into my leg.

  The pain is instant and my leg feels like it’s shattered. “Please, Daddy,” I beg again, burying my face into my hands.

  But ‘please’ never seems to work.

  Nothing does.

  I’ve just got to take the beatings, because that’s what stupid, ugly girls do.

  Dying Wish

  I have three major loves in my life: my family, my best friend Becky, and ballet. Elijah Turner is quickly becoming the fourth.

  He's been around as long as I can remember. But now he's much more than just the annoying guy at school.

  My life was working out perfectly...until it got turned upside down.

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  Mistrust

  I’m the popular girl at school.

  The one everyone wants to be friends with.

  I have the best boyfriend in the world, who’s on the basketball team.

  My parents adore me, and I absolutely love them. My sister and I have a great relationship too.

  I’m a cheerleader, I have a high GPA and I’m liked even by the teachers.

  It was a night which promised to be filled with love and fun until…something happened which changed everything.

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  Ugly

  *This is a dark YA/NA standalone, full-length novel. Contains violence and some explicit language*

  If I were dead, I wouldn't be able to see.

  If I were dead, I wouldn't be able to feel.

  If I were dead, he'd never raise his hand to me again.

  If I were dead, his words wouldn't cut as deep as they do.

  If I were dead, I'd be beautiful and I wouldn't be so...ugly.

  I'm not dead...but I wish I was.

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  Chef Pierre

  Holly Walker had everything she’d ever dreamed about – a happy marriage and being mum to beautiful brown-eyed Emma - until an accide
nt nineteen months ago tore her world apart. Now she's a widow and single mother to a boisterous little 7-year-old girl, looking for a new start. Ready to take the next step, Holly has found herself a job as a maître d' at Table One, a once-acclaimed restaurant in the heart of Sydney. But one extremely arrogant Frenchman isn't going to be easy to work with...

  Twenty years ago, Pierre LeRoux came to Australia, following the stunning Aussie girl he'd fallen in love with and married. He and his wife put their personal lives on hold, determined for Pierre to take Sydney's culinary society by storm. Just as his bright star was on the upswing, tragedy claimed the woman he was hopelessly in love with. He had been known as a Master Chef, but since his wife’s death he has become known as a monster chef.

  Can two broken people rebuild their lives and find happiness once more?

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  Smoke and Mirrors

  Words can trick us.

  Smoke obscures objects on the edge of our vision.

  A mirror may reflect, but the eye sees what it wants.

  A delicate scent can evoke another time and place, a memory from the past.

  And a sentence can deceive you, even as you read it.

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  Grit

  ***Recommended for 18 years and over***

  Alpha MC Prez Jaeger Dalton wants the land that was promised to him.

  Sassy Phoenix Ward isn’t about to let anyone take Freedom Run away from her.

  He’ll protect what’s his.

  She’ll protect what’s hers.

  Jaeger is an arrogant ass, but he wants nothing more than Phoenix.

  Phoenix is stubborn and headstrong, and she wants Jaeger out of her life.

  Her father lost the family farm to gambling debts, but Jaeger isn’t the only one who has a claim to the property.

  Sometimes it’s best to let things go.

  But sometimes it’s better to fight until the very end.