Splitsville.com Read online

  Erin’s smile fades, but she doesn’t give up. “Please?”

  Her words make me cringe. I hate hearing her beg. Why won’t he do it? Why can’t she find a guy that’ll make her happy like Bradley’s making me happy?

  “Eh.” He has no problem letting us know his disgust as he takes a quick look at my pride and joy. “Don’t you think you’re a little old for something so childish?” His eyes stab me in my soul and I wince. I can’t stare too long or his aura will ruin the entire night.

  “No.” Bradley takes the picture from my hand. “We love it.” He smiles and leans down giving me a peck on the cheek. Bradley speaks softly into my ear, “Don’t mind him. He’s jealous.”

  I inhale, bringing life back into my deflated body. Even though we’ve only known each other a short time, somehow Bradley knows exactly what to say.

  He’ll never hurt me like Kent will hurt Erin. Or at least that’s what his aura tells me. And auras are never wrong.

  “We like to go to The Gallery.” Kent puts his arm around Erin as if he owns her. “Besides, we have some things to talk about.”

  La-ti-da, who gives a big crap about going to The Gallery. It’s a swank art gallery in the newly revamped downtown area where you have to dress up, drink wine, pretend you know art, and act like you’re somebody you’re not. Besides, Erin hates The Gallery, or at least that’s what she said when Plan It did the grand opening for them.

  Erin gives Kent a questioning look. “Really? What?” Erin looks off into the dark.

  I hide my surprised expression as I watch Kent’s normal aura turn a more dull grey. The only time I ever see this is when someone’s trust is about to be broken. I wonder what he’s keeping from her?

  Erin shakes her hair out of her face and gently touches his forearm. “Oh, okay.” She looks at me and raises her brows while lifting her shoulders. “I'll talk to you tomorrow.

  “Goodnight Kent.” Bradley shakes Kent’s hand then nods at Erin. “Goodnight."

  “Night.” Erin takes Kent’s hand and lets him led the way.

  I have to do something to stop her. “Are you sure you don’t want a caramel apple over The Gallery’s day-old cheese?” I sympathize with her.

  She smiles and shakes her head no-like a good little girl.

  I’m disappointed that Erin and I can’t spend more of the evening together. I can tell by the slump in her walk that she’s going to miss our Spring Fling tradition- eating cotton candy, popcorn, elephant ears and riding the tilt-a-whirl until we’re sick to our stomachs.

  “Off to the ferris wheel and then the space rocket.” Bradley takes my hand and leads the way.

  I look over my shoulder to a purse-lipped Erin who loves to ride the ferris wheel. Unfortunately, I'm sure Kent thinks it’s childish. Plus apparently he's about to break her trust.

  “Can you believe that jerk?” I shake my head and grumble to Bradley. “She deserves so much better. I know there’s more evil to him than he lets on.”

  I look back at them again and read Erin’s body language. She's standing still as a statue while Kent’s lips move a mile a minute. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but her open-mouthed stare tells me she’s not happy about it.

  “Come on, Olivia.” Bradley nudges me closer to the ride. “We don’t need to be involved in their relationship.”

  All the white bulbs going off in sequence and the music stirs an excitement helping me resist the urge to run back to her. “We do if he’s hurting her.” I glance back in time for Kent to catch my eye. He must’ve told her what was on his mind because his aura is black and I sure don’t want that to touch me.

  “Why do you think he’s hurting her? It’s an argument.”

  I shrug, zipping my lips. Every time I’ve told someone about my “gift”, they’ve run off. Invasion of privacy. Freak. You name it, I’ve heard it. Bradley is a keeper, so the longer I can wait to tell him, the better.

  “He’s not hurting her. She’s a big girl, she’ll figure out what a jerk he is.” Bradley pulls me toward the ferris wheel. We stand with our feet on the mat and wait for our seat to swing by so we can board.

  “You’re right.” I slip back into the seat and peer over the lake on the upswing of the ride.

  I see the back of Erin’s grey aura walking towards the parking lot, behind Kent’s red aura. Red is usually good. Great even. It means passionate. Kent’s red is mad. This relationship is exhausting and her aura tells me so.

  I point in their direction. “Where are they going?”

  “Who cares?” Bradley pulls me close and kisses me. I know he’s hoping I will forget about Kent and Erin. “I’m going to learn everything about you, Olivia Davis.”

  If only. I frown, wishing I could tell him everything about what I see or who I really am.

  ***

  The carriage lights are burning bright on our way through the deserted downtown streets. When we pass the retirement community, I glance down the side street and make sure Aunt Matilda’s truck is neatly parked in front of her house. This way I know she’s safe and sound at home.

  The Mini-Cooper turns onto my dark street. For years I’ve begged the city to put streetlights in my neighborhood, but it’s not high on their priority list. It’s the oldest section of Park City and they’d have to put in all new electric lines in order for it to happen.

  I’ve taken great pride in my little cottage house over the past few years and the spring flowers popping up along the white picket fence and along the cobblestone walk add to the cuteness I’ve been trying to achieve.

  When I painted my door red, the neighbors chuckled. “She’s young. Kids now-a-days, they don’t know what looks good.”

  I rolled my eyes and chalked it up to them being old. Thank God, Aunt Matilda isn’t like them. She loved it and helped me.

  Bradley parks the car in my driveway and asks me the question I fear most. “Are you going to invite me in?”

  I panic.

  Is he a neat freak? Will my messy side be a deal-breaker for him? I’d say we’re on step two of my dating stage list and being a slob is not a good trait to have.

  “Uh, sure.” My brain scrambles to think up a complete lie about the state of the house. “I’ve been working so hard for the past couple weeks, I can’t guarantee the house is spotless.” A total understatement.

  I slowly turn the key and pray it’s not as bad as I remember it being.

  It’s worse.

  “Oh, just step over it.” I refer to the empty shoebox in the middle of the floor.

  I flick on the light revealing the clothes piles everywhere. They’re on the couch, on the floor. A blouse is haphazardly tossed across the lampshade. A bra hangs on the closet door-knob where I’d hung it to dry. Not to mention the dirty dishes piled on the coffee table plus the kitchen counter top.

  “Sorry, I haven’t unloaded the dishwasher yet.” I grab an arm load of clothes off the couch, snatching the bra at the last second, and hurry back to my room.

  There is no way any hanky panky will be happening here tonight. My bed is a rumpled mess. The beige goose-down comforter in a heap in the center, pillows and shams scattered on the floor. The rest of my wardrobe thrown all over the room. I dump the pile in my arms on the floor with the rest of them and close the door behind me.

  I find Bradley sitting in the free spot I cleared, only he’s up right and not lounging back.

  “Sit back.” I gesture and pick up the pile of plates. I take them to the kitchen and add to the pile on the counter. I might not be good at cleaning, but I am good at moving piles around. I peer around the corner of the kitchen door. “Do you want something to drink?”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Do you have any clean dishes?” he asks, and I see the fear in his eyes and curiosity in his aura.

  My shoulders slump. “Yes.” I try not to be hurt by his jab. Since it’s true and all. “I've been so busy lately. . .” I trail off. By the look on his face I know I can’t tell him the truth. If he freaks a
bout my messy house, think what he'll do when he finds out I'm sort of psychic. The truth about my “gift” or my problem with trying to keep my house clean—which one will scare him off?

  “I was going to ask how you can stand such a messy house.”

  An uneasy feeling bubbles up in my stomach when I see his beautiful blue aura turn more into the Delft blue that is on my Aunt Matilda’s china.

  “My aunt’s been visiting on top of it all." I swing my arms out. "Most of this is hers.” I bite my lip wondering if he’ll buy it. I touch my nose, also wondering if it’s growing like Pinocchio’s. Small. Pert. Phew.

  His jaw muscles relax. He bought my little white lie. At least for now.

  My tall tale grows as his freaking strong clean house principles surround him and light up his profile. “I can’t stand this mess." I fluff a cushion and fold a blanket to make my lie seem real. “That’s why I’m taking off tomorrow and cleaning the house.” I vow then and there to live up to my lie and change my attitude about clutter. I'm not too old to change. I've been meaning to clean up my act anyway.

  Once in the car, we chat easily about how lucky we are that we met, about dogs, movies, and the sex appeal of the ferris wheel.

  “Come by and visit me at the SPCA tomorrow.”

  “Absolutely, I’ll bring coffee.”

  He smiles, sitting back and stretching his arm out behind me. “What exactly is your dot com job?” My mind comes to a screeching halt and he continues, “You said something about heart research.”

  Shit, shit, shit. There is no good way to say I run a break up service. It makes me sound cynical. Greedy. Heartless. “Let’s not talk about work.” I hand him a glass of chardonnay in hopes he will forget about the mess around him and stop questioning about my job. “Cheers,” I say.

  “To us.”

  Us. I like how that rolls off his tongue.

  We each take a sip, and then Bradley takes my glass and finds an empty space on the table. He turns toward me and leans in until his lips meet mine. Even though Erin is on my mind, this night is turning out perfect.

  Seven

  Every morning for the past couple of days, I’ve been dedicated to reading the paper and turning on the news, searching for anything about Dabi Stone. There are still no leads, not motives, nothing.

  “Now Joyce and Dan Stone are making a moving plea to seek justice for their daughter death.” I stop dead in my tracks, my hair brush dangling in my long hair. I take a long hard look at the television at Dabi’s parents who’s doing a press conference and pleading for any breaks in the case.

  My heart aches for Mrs. Stone and I want to reach through the TV and give her a big hug. Tears pool in my eyes and slip down my cheeks. There’s nothing natural about having to bury any child, much less your own. Our children are supposed to outlive their parents, not the other way around.

  The same frail woman who’s been splashed all over the newspapers glares at the camera. “Know we will hunt you down until we find you. Money is no object. Michael, where are you?” I jump because her eyes stare through the TV, piercing my soul.

  The crowd immediately begins shouting, “Who’s Michael?”

  My tears turn to acid. Crap! She blames Michael! My mind races. I yank the brush out of my hair, taking a patch of blonde hair with it. I listen to see if anything else is said about him while I focus the rest of my attention on the squatty bald man with his hand lightly rubbing down Dabi’s mom’s back. I can only conclude, by the process of elimination, it’s Dabi’s father.

  The way he consoles her doesn’t look as caring as a man whose daughter has been murdered. I guess I picture an angry man who wants revenge for his daughter. Not a man who is scanning the crowd with a slight smile on his face and a few nods.

  I shove the empty cereal boxes out of the way to find a pen and jot notes. Of course there’s not a scrap of blank paper to be found. I have to protect Splitsville.com. It’s my business. My baby. My livelihood. And if Bradley finds out about it, I might lose him.

  Dabi’s mother sobs and begins to gasp for air. She’s disheveled from head to toe. Her hair looks like it hasn’t been combed in days, her clothes look like they came off my floor. She’s bent over, and sort of broken. I look closer and notice her buttons aren’t even buttoned right. But underneath it, I know she means what she says about hunting down Dabi’s killer. Dabi’s father stands straight as an arrow, and much calmer than his wife. Too bad I can’t see his aura through the screen.

  I rush back to my office and quickly thumb through my filing cabinet, the one thing I do keep organized in my life.

  “Michael Schultz,” I say his name and wait for my body reaction. “Michael Schultz.”

  Hmm. . .when I generally repeat people’s name I get an instant vibe, but not this time. I wait for a sign, a shiver or a shake. Even a burp will do. I feel nothing.

  I dig in my files. The reputation of Splitsville.com, and my new relationship with Bradley, is on the line. With the wonderful technology of the internet, I Google whitepages.com and run a reverse search on his telephone number which gives me his street address. I scribble the address on his file and grab the newspaper clipping, and dash out the door.

  I check my watch once I get into the car. 6:50 AM. Way too early for me, but this way I’ll be able to get it over with. I’ll read his aura and hopefully clear my mind. He has to have a clear aura. He’d be the first one the police will suspect. Isn’t it always the boyfriend? And a disgruntled one at that.

  I can’t shake Mr. Stone’s TV demeanor. I know that if my loved one was murdered, I wouldn’t be so—together. But he’s the dad. Why would her dad want to harm his daughter? Who else would want her dead?

  If my hunches are right, Michael didn’t do it and Splitsville.com is free. I’ll hunt the killer down because there’s no way my company’s going to be saddles with the word murder.

  Plenty of time to stake him out, read his aura, come up with my next plan of action, and still get ready to meet Bradley at the SPCA.

  My car hugs the road as I weave through Park City back-roads, taking the quickest route from the westside to the southside of town. It would’ve taken me twice as long to get there if I’d gone through town with all the pedestrians milling around.

  Michael lives on the outskirts, where all the old buildings have been turned into one of the trendy areas to live in. It’s not expensive, but the park draws the walkers and animal lovers. It’s the same park where Dabi and I made our distaste for each other known.

  I pull into a spot right in from of his building. The yellow brick three story tall apartment complex doesn’t look like anything Dabi Stone would step foot in. Granted there aren’t many high-end apartments in Park City, but there are a lot better looking buildings than this.

  It’s no big deal if he sees me. He’ll think I’m here for the walking trail in the park across the street—another perk to being an anonymous name behind a computer.

  My phone rings, signaling a new dump has been delivered by email. I ignore it. It’s commute time. Wednesday morning. People pour out of the building, and if I don’t keep my eye out, I’m sure to miss him.

  I look at each guy carefully and back at Michael’s picture. The first guy’s nose is too long compared to Michael’s button one. Michael’s shoulders are definitely more slim compared to the second guy.

  I sit up a little taller and crane my neck to see the third guy coming out of the building. I strain to see under his baseball cap, but the blonde curly hair sticking out the back is not Michael’s black short spiky cut.

  Nothing. Nada. Not a one of them looks like Michael Schultz. 7:15 AM.

  I roll the ball on my Blackberry. Might as well read the email dumps I’m going to have to catch up on. I begin making up some of the conversations I might have with the dumpee, but a little black yapping dog breaks my concentration. The malti-poo is rushes across the street with Michael attached to it.

  The real life Michael and the photo of him don’t jive
-much smaller in the picture. With his muscular build, he looks like a guy that’d own a larger dog, a little more masculine. I snicker at the idea of the pint-sized dog. I would’ve figured him as a big dog man.

  I slip my sunglasses down on the bridge of my nose and watch him. I’ve got one good shot at this. I fervently hope I’m not wrong and that he’s not involved.

  My eyes adjust to a pretty lavender aura surrounding him. It flutters lightly behind each step the malit-poo pulls him.

  I sigh, almost forgetting why I’m there. I look at my steering wheel so my eyes will go back into normal-vision mode and take notes on his file. First off, he has a dog, which shows he’s caring and so lavender. Second the dog is leading Michael so he’s not tense, so lavender. His aura makes me feel good. He’s a free spirit, a dreamer. Far from a killer.

  He crosses the street heading straight toward my car. I slink down in my seat and pretend to bury my head in my BlackBerry to hide from him. “Shh Belle,” I hear him say as he passes my open window. He’s walking directly in front of my car towards the park.

  Belle? Strange name for a man’s dog. This guy is not what he seems.

  Once he’s out of hearing distance, I turn the key to start my old Toyota. Only it doesn’t start. A flash of panic sweeps over me. I check the air conditioner to make sure it’s not the culprit that drained the battery. The lights are even off. I take the key out and put it back in and turn. Still nothing.

  Click. Click.

  Great. Of all the times I need it to start, it won’t. Dead as a cold fish, as Aunt Matilda would say.

  Please start, please start. I beg to myself with my eyes tightly closed and turn the key one more time. If I need good karma, right now would be the time.

  Click. Click.

  There’s a knock on the driver’s side window. Startled, I practically leap across my seat. Michael is smiling down at me. “Do you need help?” he asks.

  I glance out the window and see Belle sniffing my tires.

  Click. Click.

  “It’s not going to start,” Michael affirms what I already know, and reclines himself up against the car, arms crossed. He doesn’t budge. He nods to a pedestrian passing by. For a guy who’s just been dumped by his girlfriend who turned up murdered, he sure does have an upbeat personality. “I can check under the hood.”