Free Splitsville.com by Tonya Kappes Page A

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