Chapter Two
The icy chill of déjà vu crept down her spine as if it had all happened only yesterday, and as if tragedy were about to happen again. Tara Munroe pushed the uneasy feeling away.
“It was a long time ago,” she assured herself. But today, for some reason, it felt like yesterday that her father had been murdered. She knew that some things you never recovered from. Painful experience had taught her that. Some things left a mark no matter how long ago they had happened. She took a breath, trying to go back to enjoying the beautiful spring day. But something seemed to hang over her like a shadow.
“Forget it,” she said to herself. She was being ridiculous, dreaming up trouble where there was none. Though it was the anniversary of that dreadful day. She took a deep breath. It wasn’t an anniversary to remember. Instead she had to think of it as what it was, a beautiful day, midmorning, midspring.
It was already comfortably warm, touched with the lazy humidity left by last night’s gentle rain. The sweet scent of petunias wafted from a planter on the city sidewalk. The flowers were early, grown in the local city greenhouse and just recently planted here. In the midst of downtown Pueblo, Colorado, the natural beauty of the flowers stood out against the brick and stone. The historic buildings that populated the downtown provided a touch of Old World to the city’s core. But it was the sweet, earthy scent of the flowers that made her fingers itch to pick up a paintbrush and transfer the vibrant colors onto canvas or cardstock for greeting cards or...
But she had other things on her mind today, less artsy things—like getting some cash to pay her rent.
The last thought dropped as she was shoved, the arm of a man ramming into her shoulder and throwing her off balance. She had to catch herself from falling as she fought for balance, the clasp on her purse releasing. The hand-painted bag flew open, spilling some of its contents on the sidewalk.
“Hey!” she said as she bent down to pick up her things.
The man was already ahead of her. But he glanced back. His eyes briefly met hers, and in that moment, she noticed dark hair that was thick, short and wild, and the tawny color of his skin that accentuated a thick scar. The scar ran crookedly across the top half of his cheek. There was anger in his dark brown eyes and a wildness that made her heart race in fear.
A few feet away, he squatted down to pick up a rectangle of off-white paper with an elastic at one end. It looked like a medical mask. But that seemed a weird thing to carry around, she thought as she watched him shove it in his pocket and walk away without giving her a second look.
Jerk.
His lack of manners had her fuming. She kept watching him. She wasn’t sure why, except that something about him felt a bit off. She watched as he crossed the street. Then he turned toward a familiar building, the same place she was headed: Pueblo First National Bank.
“Great,” she muttered. Sitting on her haunches, she picked up the remainder of her things from the sidewalk and put them back into her purse.
A few minutes later, she opened the door to the bank and was met by a rush of air-conditioned chill that made her feel like winter had returned. She shivered and stopped.
