The Trouble with Chance
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PROLOGUE
Current Year, March
Even at the end of a frigid March, Thomas Chance was sweating inside the roomy tweed jacket, not needing the crumpled parka tossed onto the back seat. Shaky hands tried to smooth down his dusty blond hair. Checking the results in the mirror, he realized his attempt to contain the frizzy strands falling over his forehead was useless. He slid the wire-framed glasses up his freckled nose, noticing his red-rimmed blue eyes.
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Thomas’s fingers rubbed his dry eyes while he gazed through the windshield. The gathering darkness matched his mood as patchy steel-gray clouds anchored a disquiet winter sky. The weak descending sun managed to peek through those sooty clouds, casting long shadows on the treacherous rural road. Thomas slapped the steering wheel, his temper flaring over his discovery. He sighed, lowering his head, then raising it barely in time to navigate the turn ahead. The near accident sent tiny flutters to his empty stomach.
Thomas rolled and shrugged his stiff shoulders. Hours ago, after learning a disturbing revelation from an old acquaintance about Rossi, his friend and boss, he had returned to the office to confront him. Rossi wasn’t there, but Thomas came across a troubling postcard-size picture and a paper with three lines of seemingly random numbers. Rossi hadn’t bothered to hide a photo of a painting stolen months before at the National Gallery in London. Was Rossi responsible? Thomas believed so or believed it enough that he slipped the potential evidence into a coat pocket and hurried to the door to avoid Rossi’s nosy secretary.
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The Rokeby painting. Rossi had been acting suspiciously these past few months. Ashamed of himself, Thomas admitted that he was a sixty-year-old pushover when it came to Rossi. Maybe he was wrong and making something out of nothing. There was no point jumping to conclusions. At war with himself, Thomas’s judgment wavered between innocent and guilty. At the end of the internal debate, he convinced himself to talk with Rossi when he got back from his sales trip. Until then, he’d place his final verdict on hold.
Thomas concentrated on the drive, navigating Route 71’s rises, dips, and sharp curves. He crossed the yellow line as his mind drifted. He needed to focus. He glanced in the mirror, grateful the road lacked traffic, except for a black sedan coming up fast. Thomas assumed an unmarked police cruiser had paced him. He cursed, then blessed his luck when he glimpsed the speedometer displaying forty-five miles per hour.
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He guessed the cop was headed somewhere up the road. Thomas refocused on the paper and picture he’d found. He and his colleagues had heard about the theft, but he’d never imagined it might have been Rossi.
If Thomas’s suspicions about Rossi were correct, the revelation would crush Nora, but she needed to know about his duplicity. He slipped on an antiquated headset, wishing—not for the first time—that his older vehicle had Bluetooth. Phone in hand, he speed-dialed her number, his agile left knee guiding the car while he waited for her to pick up.
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The ringing echoed in Thomas’s ear, and he wasn’t surprised when his daughter didn’t answer. She was most likely at the shop, with a classic rock mix playing through her headphones. He’d often catch her getting a silent boogie on as she worked, tools in hand.
Thomas ended the call, placing the phone on the seat as he negotiated another razor-sharp curve, easing up on the gas to compensate for the icy surface from the previous day’s snowstorm. He released a breath, glad she hadn’t answered. He’d prefer to tell her in person anyway.
He passed the sign for the Illinois and Ottawa canyons. Starved Rock, steeped in history, presented nature at its best. Thomas and his wife had often taken Nora, their impressionable freckle-faced daughter, hiking and camping among the sandstone buttes, deep ravines, seasonal waterfalls, and spectacular panoramic views that overlooked the murky Illinois River.
Evergreens and leafless trees rooted in stone cliffs or bordering rugged hiking trails were dotted with snow, completing the park’s inspiring canvas. This stretch of highway was why Thomas had left the uninspiring interstate. The last few miles had been breathtaking.
Older and close to retirement, Thomas found his memories of Nora’s childhood precious and fleeting. He wished they could spend more time together. He acknowledged that life had gotten in the way lately but was positive their spring trip to Colorado would help mend that deficiency.
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The unmistakable roar of an engine disrupted Thomas’s short-lived musings on bygone days and sculpted limestone. His eyes lifted to the rearview mirror. The forgotten black sedan had sped up. The car was too close for Thomas to react when it rammed into his rear end.
A sickening crunch jarred Thomas forward and threw the car into a slide. A loud metal clank followed when his bumper crashed to the pavement. Tires squealed from both vehicles, and the fast-moving sedan veered left, missing the chunky piece of chrome-plated steel.
Thomas’s nightmare happened in slow motion as the gorge floor rushed up to meet him. This gripping view caused his heartbeat to stop in sync with his breath, and his eyes widened as he mouthed incoherent words. Crisp flashes of people and events played in his mind, and deceptive seconds turned to minutes, minutes to hours—the immeasurable moments endured in midair.
Thomas’s body floated, restrained only by the seatbelt. The metal tonnage soared with ease, invisible wings lifting the car and Thomas skyward. They were one and weightless—till gravity took hold, and they dropped into the ravine below.
A pair of strong hands pulled Thomas from the wreckage and tossed him to the ground; the wet snow penetrated Thomas’s jacket and dress pants, numbing his broken body to the pain. He cursed his impulsiveness, his failure to realize the ripple effects of his rash decision to take what didn’t belong to him.
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“Come on, Tommy Boy, hate to get your pretty daughter and stepson involved in this mess, yeah? I’ll ask again. Where’d you put the book?”
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The beating Thomas was receiving was no match to the wound in his heart. He was helpless, knowing that the incriminating contents he’d pocketed in Rossi’s office would leave his stepson, Phillip, and Nora alone to face the man they all trusted. Now, knowing the depths of what Rossi was capable of, it was too late to warn them. Thomas was dying. His silent regrets eased with the notion of reuniting with his wife, Caro—the woman he called his ghost.