Chapter 5
FIVE
“So she hugged you?”
Jack’s question made Conrad look up from where he had unscrewed the base of yet another bus seat in Jack’s newly purchased 1973 GMC forty-five-foot passenger transit bus, which sat tucked away from the elements in a rented heated garage in Duck Lake.
“Don’t get excited. It doesn’t mean anything.” Conrad tossed the nut and bolt into a bucket as Jack loosened a seat on the other side of the aisle.
The bus was a classic, vintage find, and Conrad fought a small twinge of envy, despite the mountain of work ahead of his brother. The mint-green vintage bus, with its metal racing stripe down the side, flat windshield, fishbowl headlights, and angled safari-style windows looked like something out of an old 1970s photograph. It would make cool digs for Jack when he hit the road again, traipsing America in search of the lost.
Maybe when Jack hit the road again, Harper Malone would join him as his wife, given the fact that Conrad had walked in on them kissing this morning.
For her part, Harper seemed already invested in the project, painting ceiling boards and trim laid out on sawhorses, the piquant smell of fresh paint sharpening the brisk air. She listened to music, wearing paint clothes, and a bandanna over her short blonde hair.
Cute.
And just then, the sight of Penny sitting across from him at the Ironclad, her eyes wide at his words, sat down in his brain and didn’t budge.
“You, Penelope Pepper, are the connection.”
He’d never been so ice cold as in that moment he’d realized that.
Until then, he hadn’t been able to get his brain off . . . the hug.
“What do you mean ‘It doesn’t mean anything’?” Jack worked the seat free from its mounts.
“She’s not into me—or maybe not now. I did a stupid thing and told her the story of Jasmine.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, okay? I just . . . I didn’t want her to think I was that guy.” He got up and helped Jack wrench his seat free, then took one end as they hauled it out of the bus. “Let’s focus on what really matters.”
“What’s that? Donuts?” Jack angled the seat down the steps.
“For the love. What do you know about the mystery of Sarah Livingston?” He let go as Jack carried the seat to the corner to join the other forty-five seats on their way to an eBay posting.
Jack set it down, smacked off his hands. “Pretty much everything since Harper is helping produce the podcast. She’s writing copy and managing the forum.” He glanced at his girlfriend, who was humming a song Conrad couldn’t make out.
Jack wore a silly grin now as she took the paintbrush and sang into it like a microphone. “Don’t stop believin’—”
Oy.
“She’s not great at karaoke,” he said, laughing.
Nice to see his brother happy. Jack had spent so many years as the prodigal. His return home seemed to have set their family to rights.
And had freed Doyle, maybe to finally find his future.
Conrad slapped dirt from his hands too. “First, like I said, let’s not get crazy about the hug. It was an impulse. Just—a reaction to seeing Beckett’s house on fire. And good thing, because about ten minutes later, the firefighters carried his charred corpse from the house. At least, we thought it was Becker. They identified his body in today’s paper.”
“Charred corpse? That’s a little harsh, Conrad.” This from Harper, who clearly could hear them over her music.
He glanced back at her. “Sorry. Good copy, though—you should use that for the podcast.”
“You just play hockey. Let me do the writing.” She dipped her brush into the paint, tried to catch the drips, and finished the end of the board. Her clothes resembled a Jackson Pollock painting.
Conrad followed Jack into the bus.
“So, what’s the point we’ve been missing?” Jack bent over another bench.
Conrad worked his seat free. “ Penelope is the connective tissue here. Did you know that she talked with Sarah Livingston before Sarah was murdered?”
Jack glanced up at him with a frown. Tossed a freed bolt into the bucket. “What about?”
“Long story, but she thinks Sarah had information about the murder of Edward Hudson, her sister’s dead fiancé.”
“That’s why she thinks the crimes are connected.”
“Yes. But what if they’re connected because of Penelope ?” He carried the seat out of the bus and set it on the garage floor, then climbed back inside.
Jack’s power drill buzzed. He dropped in another bolt. “How?”
“I don’t know.” Conrad picked up the drill. “I think we need to figure out if Edward was really murdered. So I’m thinking we probably need the forensic report. And then?—”
“Wait—what’s this we ?” Jack stood up. “You’re going to investigate this with her?”
Oh. “Uh . . .”
“And what, join her on the podcast?”
He unscrewed a bolt. “What—no. Of course not. It’s just . . .” Conrad finished unscrewing the others, then stood up. “She gets in over her head.”
“You think?” Jack worked his seat free. “This is the girl who hid for three days in an icehouse, waiting for her podcast to drop, after thinking someone was trying to kill her.”
“Someone was trying to kill her,” Conrad said, his voice quiet.
Jack’s mouth pinched. “We’ll never know, will we?”
“I think the evidence is pretty clear. Whoever took her drove her out to Loon Lake to shoot her and leave her with the fishes.”
“Thank you, Michael Corleone, for that reminder. I was there.” He picked up the seat, and Conrad grabbed the end. “I’m just saying, she could have gone to the police. But she didn’t.”
“My point exactly. She’s a little impulsive?—”
They’d brought the seat outside—not heavy, but awkward—and set it next to the other. Jack looked up at him. “That’s the pot. Sheesh.”
Sometimes his big brother seemed so different from him. Sure, he’d played hockey and had been raised by the same parents, but Jack had a sort of individual spirit about him, the ability to separate his emotions from his job of finding the lost, to see the big picture.
Conrad had always let himself get too wrapped up in the frenzy of the game, the emotions. Struggled to step out of the brawl. “Hey. I’m working on that.”
Jack stood up. “The fact is, you care—it’s just part of who you are. You care, you get involved, and suddenly you’re in over your head too. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.” Jack picked up his seat, heading for the pile. “Although, I’m not sure it’s not too late, given your recent social media.”
Conrad had followed him. “What?”
Jack set down the seat, turned to him. “Harper showed me. Pictures of you and Penelope at Lakeside Pizza Company? Looked like you were having a good time. Something about a pizza-eating contest?”
What? “Yeah, pictures were taken, but—who posted them?”
“Penelope. It’s on her account, but she tagged you, I think. They came up on Harper’s feed. Lots of likes, buddy. So, are you two dating?”
“No.” Conrad probably set down the seat harder than he needed to. “She specifically told me that she wasn’t falling for me.”
Jack raised an eyebrow.
“Listen. I don’t know what to think. One minute she’s flirting with me, the next she ghosts me. I dunno. She’s a mystery. I can’t figure her out.”
“So maybe don’t try. Stop overthinking it.”
He frowned, following Jack over to his workbench, where Jack opened a vintage thermos and poured a cup of coffee. Handed it to Conrad. Poured one for himself. “Bro. It’s got to be exhausting being in your head.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You make everything way too complicated. You’re constantly reviewing your life, looking at your mistakes”—he held up a hand as Conrad’s mouth opened—“and if you’re not doing that, you’re trying to figure out how to navigate your next play. In life, on the ice, dating . . . You gotta relax. Stop worrying.”
“Please. It’s not like you didn’t let your mistakes drive you away from . . . well, everything.” Conrad glanced at Harper, who had set down her brush and now climbed into the bus.
“Agreed. So this is newly minted advice. Maybe you stop trying to figure everything out and just trust that God has a good path.”
He narrowed his eyes as Jack walked over to the bus to join Harper.
Yeah, well, he made his own path. Had to.
Conrad climbed inside the bus to a discussion about designs.
“If you want a king-sized bed, Jack, you need to put the bed across the back.” Harper was motioning out her design with a cup of coffee from Echoes Vinyl Café.
“But what if I want just a queen bed? I can put it along one side and then there’s a walkway.”
Harper cocked her head at him, raised an eyebrow.
Jack grinned, a twinkle in his expression.
And that only made Conrad’s mind go to Penelope sitting across from him, tasting an Ironclad cookie, ribbing him about his late-night sugar habits.
“You probably shouldn’t fall for me.”
“Conrad,” Harper said, “I heard you’re coaching an EmPowerPlay team.” She climbed up to sit on a seat while Jack loosened one of the last ones.
“Yeah. The Ice Hawks. How?—”
“Penelope, of course. She called me this morning, said something about eating a cookie with you?”
“Sounds like a date to me,” Jack said, glancing up at him.
It did, didn’t it?
Maybe they were dating. Which meant, what? . . . He should text her?
Stop overthinking it.
He picked up his phone and pulled up her text from ages ago.
Stared at the note, not sure what to say . . .
Conrad
Hey. Wondering if you’re free?—
Nope. Delete.
Conrad
Hey. Just checking in?—
No, she’d think he was stalking her. Shoot. Maybe he was, because last night he’d pulled out of her driveway, then turned off his lights and sat in the darkness, waiting until her house darkened for the night before driving the few blocks home. He hadn’t realized she lived so close to him.
Delete.
“I can’t believe you’re coaching.” Jack wrenched up the seat. “You tried that once, years ago, and said never again .”
Conrad took the bench from Jack, hoping his brother didn’t see how he blanched as his lungs seized up.
“Things have clearly changed,” said Harper, singing the last word. “Coaching, eating pizza with a bunch of kids. Next thing you know he’ll be buying them new jerseys.”
Yes. Bam.
Conrad carried the seat out and dumped it. Then pulled out his phone.
Conrad
Hey. Wondering if you want to go pick out hockey gear with me for the team. Tomorrow afternoon?
He waited, saw the message change from Delivered to Read .
Three dots . . . typing . . .
A moment later, the dots died.
Nothing.
He waited another minute, then pocketed the phone.
Probably better this way.
Harper came out of the bus, holding her car keys. “Jack and I are headed over to the house for Doyle’s goodbye party. You’re coming, right?”
He shoved his hands into his pockets, shrugged.
“What’s that look?” She walked over to him.
“Nothing. It’s just . . .” He shook his head. “She told me she wasn’t going to fall for me, so I’m not sure why I’m even?—”
“She got to you.”
“No, just . . .”
“Don’t let her stupidity scare you away. And don’t believe her about not falling for you. She’s got a huge heart—she’s just scared.”
He raised an eyebrow.
Harper made a wry face. “Okay, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but Penelope had a boyfriend years ago named Ted Whitey. He played baseball for the University of Minnesota, but what he really wanted was a tryout—specifically for the Detroit Tigers, in Florida.”
She glanced at Jack, coming out of the bus, carrying his tools to his workbench. Back to Conrad. “Penelope was his biggest fan, and of course, when she found out that he wanted to go, she was all in. Except it cost money—he had to stay and train for six weeks and even needed a batting coach. Anyway, she sprang for it. Dipped into her trust fund, handed over thousands of dollars to get him to Florida for tryout season.”
A sickness stirred in his gut.
“She waited until tryout week and then flew down to see him. Except—he wasn’t there.”
“What?”
“He’d gone to Florida, washed out the first week, hooked up with some girl, took the money and vanished. Sixty g’s, which isn’t a lot for a Pepper, maybe, but he took her money and ghosted her. Of course, her father tracked him down—in Vegas. He’d gotten it in his head that he might strike it rich and blew the entire wad. Oh, and he got married. Different girl. Elvis presided.”
Conrad fought a terrible urge to hop on a plane to Vegas, have a little chat with baseball boy. Except, imagine if the kid hadn’t lied . . . well, maybe Penelope would be hitched to the schmuck right now.
He released a breath.
“She swore off athletes after that. Said they were too in love with their success. Then again, she said that about a musician she dated, and even about a lawyer, the last year of college. But . . .” She sighed. “The only man she ever loved was engaged to her sister—and that’s a story in itself. And then he was killed in a fire. Or was murdered. Either way, don’t be too hurt, Conrad. Penelope has a deep heart. But I’m not sure even she knows what she wants.” She put a hand on his arm. “I’m not saying don’t try. I saw the pictures—you made her smile. That’s a start.” She patted his arm. “Besides, she really is working. She got another lead—she texted me this morning about a file that Beckett sent her before the fire.”
He stilled. “What?”
“Yeah. Said she didn’t check it until after she’d gotten home. It’s encrypted though, so I sent her to Coco.”
“Wyatt’s wife?” His goalie had married a computer wizard.
“Yeah. They’re probably trying to get the file open.”
The phone buzzed in his pocket.
Harper walked back to Jack as Conrad pulled it out, thumbed open the text.
From Penelope.
Penelope
Send me the when and where.
He’d have to call Jones and get the equipment manager to hook him up with their supplier.
Conrad
Okay. We can probably get in tomorrow. I’ll send you details. It’s a date.
He held his breath.
Dots . . .
Penelope
LOL. Good one. Yes, a date.
Weird response. Still, the words lit a little something inside him, and he couldn’t help it.
Conrad
Are you okay?
Immediately.
Penelope
Fine.
He probably shouldn’t ask, but,
Conrad
Did you get a bodyguard?
Blinking. Then,
Penelope
For the love, you’re overreacting.
Apparently that was the theme of the day. Still.
Conrad
Did you not listen to anything I said?
Penelope
I was in a sugar coma. I’m fine. Working.
His thoughts went to her comment about forgetting to eat.
Conrad
The Ironclad has takeout. Want me to pick you up a cookie?
What? Oh, delete, delete—shoot.
Penelope
Sweet. No. I’ll see you tomorrow.
Right. But the spark died. He sighed.
Jack had come over. “Everything okay?”
“I’m not sure . . .”
Jack clamped him on the shoulder. “Stop the obsessing. Let’s go eat cake.”
He pocketed the phone.
“Don’t believe her about not falling for you.”
Challenge accepted.
* * *
She supposed this was how the dating game was played.
Penelope sat in her car, the heat on, waiting for Conrad to pull up outside the entrance of the Ice Gear Depot, a warehouse set in a neighborhood of Bloomington, just off 494, in a tangle of industrial buildings.
Apparently, this was the Blue Ox supplier as well as a wholesaler of hockey gear. She was listening to callers’ voicemail messages responding to her previous podcast, sorting through them to find any juicy theories.
“Hello, Penny. Love the show. Could it be a case of mistaken identity? Maybe the real target was someone close to Sarah, someone who looked similar or was connected in some way. The murderer could’ve gotten the wrong person by mistake.”
She hit pause, her brain travelling back to the words she couldn’t seem to dislodge from her brain— “You, Penelope Pepper, are the connection.”
How? Why?
The next caller didn’t help. “Hey, Penny. My thought is about silencing. Maybe the victim saw something she wasn’t supposed to and was about to talk to the police. Killing her would keep her quiet permanently.”
Except the murder hadn’t kept Beckett from sending Penelope the file, hopefully revealing whatever was on Sarah’s computer. It hadn’t come in until after she’d arrived home—but then again, she never checked her phone while driving, so . . .
Unfortunately, the file had been encrypted, and she’d spent way too many hours yesterday trying to open it until she’d finally reached out to Harper’s friend Coco, the wife of one of the Blue Ox players.
She checked her email, just to make sure that Coco hadn’t sent her a message, but nothing so far.
A car drove into the lot but continued through to a different warehouse. She pushed Play on the next caller. “Penny. This one is a bit out there, but what if this is all about a hidden treasure? Maybe the victim stumbled upon some clues to a valuable secret, and someone wanted Sarah out of the picture to claim it for themselves.”
Hidden treasure. She shook her head and dropped her phone on the seat, scrubbed her hands down her face.
“Did you get a bodyguard?”
Conrad, back in her head.
And yes, maybe she should call Franco, the personal security her father usually assigned to her when they had public events. But she didn’t love being watched.
Followed.
But maybe Conrad was right, so she’d activated her home security system for the first time in months.
She didn’t need a bodyguard.
What she needed was answers.
Her phone buzzed and she picked it up, checking her watch. Conrad was officially ten minutes late.
Clarice. She swiped the call on. “What’s going on?”
“It’s working. You officially got four thousand new followers with that pizza post.”
“That wasn’t mine. Someone else took the shot?—”
“And tagged you, I know. I had my assistant reformat it, add some sparkles and hearts, and repost it on a phantom account.”
Oh brother . “Listen?—”
“When’s your next date?”
The man drove up, parked next to her in his Charger.
“Now, actually. We’re getting sports equipment for the team.”
“That’s not a date.”
“It’s totally a date. He called it a date.”
“Really? Good. I wasn’t sure he was on board—I talked with Felicity, who said she’d talk to him, so . . . okay then. I suppose it could be cute. Take pictures.”
Conrad had gotten out, leaned down, and knocked on her window. She waved to him. It wasn’t a date—not really. But it didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate those blue eyes, something warm in them as he smiled and gave her a thumbs-up.
He was too easy to like, the way he sent a warm hum through her.
“Fine.” She hung up, then dropped her phone in her bag and got out. “Hey.”
He wore jeans and work boots, a wool jacket, and a tuque. His dusty-blond hair curled out of the back, and he smelled a little like sawdust.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Jack roped me into helping him put down new flooring in his bus.” He walked to the warehouse door and rang a bell at the back entrance.
“He got a new bus?”
“Yeah. Gutted it and is remodeling it. He has a vision for it I can’t yet see, but I trust him.”
The door opened, and a middle-aged man, dark hair, greeted Conrad with a handshake.
“Hey, Grant. Did you get my request?”
They walked into the back room, a space filled with racks and racks of equipment, from helmets, gloves, padding, breezers, sticks, and skates to protective gear, picks, goalie gear, and boxes and boxes of unbranded jerseys.
She stopped at a box of dark-blue jerseys as they walked to the front, feeling the material. “What might it cost to get new jerseys printed?”
Grant wore a pair of khakis, a jersey with the Ice Gear Depot brand on the breast. Short brown hair, a little paunch, he turned and walked backward, hand out. “Glad to help EmPowerPlay with a discount, Miss Pepper.”
Oh. Conrad must have filled him in on who he was meeting. “Thank you.”
He flashed a thumbs-up and glanced at Conrad, and ah, this was all about King Con and his involvement. Maybe even an endorsement.
Everyone wanted a piece of Conrad. Even her, apparently.
So maybe he wasn’t the villain in this agreement.
Grant ushered them into an office, and on the table lay an assortment of gear—a couple helmets, sample jerseys, socks, two types of skates, padding, and composite as well as wooden hockey sticks.
Conrad walked over to the sticks, picked one up, seemed to weigh it.
“I wasn’t sure what you wanted as far as gear, so I pulled some choices.”
She picked up a helmet, this one without a cage. “Do they come with face protection?”
“We have combo helmets. It is cheaper to get the combo than to buy them separately, but not everyone likes a cage.”
“They’re kids. Get the cage,” Conrad said. “No need to lose any teeth.”
She noticed he had perfect teeth and suddenly wanted to ask. Instead, “I agree. Combo helmets. And mouth protection.”
“Absolutely.” Grant had pulled out a tablet, started to mark up their order.
She picked up the other helmet. “What’s the difference?”
Conrad put down his stick. “The brain protection. That one has an impact foam liner for the harder hits.”
She had seen his game while cooking, and her bones ached just watching the hits against the board. Now she studied him, just for a moment, as he picked up the padding and inspected it. Tall, yes, but he also possessed a chiseled form to his body that she guessed meant hours in the gym as well as on the ice. Tight core, strong legs, corded shoulders that filled out his jacket. Capable of giving—and taking—a beating.
What if this wasn’t a fake date? What if it might be?—
Aw. Stop . He’d set the rules.
Fine. She could play the game too. She put on the helmet, then pulled out her phone. “Can we get a selfie?”
Conrad’s brows arched, then he lifted a shoulder. “Sure.”
She smiled for the camera, wearing the ridiculous helmet, and he leaned down, made a couple bunny ears. Okay, that was cute. She snapped it.
Done. Date accomplished .
Conrad picked out protective gear—shoulder pads, elbow pads, gloves, shin guards, pants, and bags to store them. “Can we get the kit price for these?”
“Absolutely,” Grant said.
“Throw in some socks?”
“Just tell me how many.”
He glanced at Penelope, but she shrugged.
“I think we have twenty kids.” He picked up the stick. “And two dozen wooden sticks. I’ll teach them how to cut them down to size and wrap them.”
He walked over to the skates. “You don’t have any discontinued brands, do you? Maybe throw those in, write it off?”
“Probably. We might have some trade-ins too.”
Conrad clamped a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Grant, you’re the best. Head to will call the next time you’re hankering to go to a game. You’ll find tickets.”
Grant grinned. “We’d love to talk about a couple commercials once you sign on for another season.”
Conrad’s mouth made a tight line, but he nodded.
Penelope glanced at him as they walked out. “You okay?”
He nodded, said nothing, and headed outside.
Stood in the cold, his eyes closing.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
She considered him, and in the quiet, her phone buzzed. She pulled it out. A text from Coco.
Coco
Decrypted your file. See attached.
The next text came through—a video. She cupped her hand over the screen and tried to open it. It buffered, taking its time.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a decrypted file Beckett sent me.” She looked up. “Sorry—I forgot to tell you. Beckett sent me a file before . . .” She swallowed.
“I know. Harper told me yesterday while we were working Jack’s new bus. She said you sent it to Coco.”
What didn’t he know? Or had he been talking about her— stop. Stop!
“Yes. I couldn’t get it open—here it comes.”
“Are you sure?” The voice came from the phone, a female, and Penelope tried to see the speaker, but the sun’s glare blinded the picture.
Then Conrad walked over and put his big hand over the screen, blocking the light.
“That’s Sarah Livingston. I think this is a Ring video.” She squinted into the screen as another voice said, “Yes. I’m sure. I hired my own arson investigator—he recovered two bullets in the wall.”
“I think that’s Holden Walsh, Sarah’s boyfriend,” Penelope said, glancing at him.
He frowned, didn’t move.
“So, was Edward shot?”—Sarah.
The question stilled Penelope.
“That’s what the forensic report says.”—Walsh.
“What forensic report?”—Sarah.
“The one that the police don’t have . . . but I do.” Walsh looked behind him then. “I think this isn’t a conversation we can have on your doorstep.”
Yes, yes it was! But they went into the house and the video ended.
“I knew it,” Penelope said. She lowered the phone. “If this is what Kyle was going to give me, then . . .” Her eyes widened. “I was?—”
“Right.” His blue-eyed gaze had darkened. “Whoever burned down Edward’s building also killed him.”
“And maybe killed Sarah. I’ll bet she didn’t have this on her computer when it was stolen—it was probably something she added afterward.”
“She might have had an entire slew of information on her computer—but this was on her Ring storage,” Conrad said. “Mine gets deleted after thirty days.”
“So this happened within a few weeks of the robbery.” She looked at him. “One of my Penny for Your Thoughts callers suggested that Sarah had been silenced. What if someone—a.k.a. Swindle—knew that his partner, Walsh, hired the investigator? Maybe even knew he was talking with Sarah.”
“When’s the last time you talked with Walsh?”
She stilled. She hadn’t even thought about—“Over a month ago. Before the wedding. He left town.” She shook her head. “I never liked him. His alibi checked out, but he had a history of violence, and I thought . . . Well, I guess I was wrong. He’s probably in hiding.”
“After what happened to Sarah, that seems right.”
She pocketed the phone. “Thanks for the date.” She headed for her car.
“Wait.” He wore a frown. “That’s it? I mean—um . . .”
Oh. “Did you . . . did you want more?” She’d taken the picture, sent it to Clarice . . .
“I guess not.” He sighed, put his hands into his pockets.
She gave him a smile. “Listen, you’re doing great. And I appreciate it. I just know you have a life, and I don’t want to interfere.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Interfere?”
She shrugged, her chest already tight. The last thing she wanted him to think was that she was throwing herself at him, hoping he’d actually like her. Besides, she knew athletes. The minute she started to actually like him, he’d blow her off for some swooning fan. And she’d aged past swooning long ago.
He stepped off the curb. “Listen. You’re not interfering. I blocked the entire afternoon to, um, hang out with you. Maybe we could, I don’t know . . . get a bite to eat?”
She stared at him, almost hypnotized by those blue eyes, the earnestness in his voice.
“There’s this great burger joint near my place. Fantastic burgers—all named after hockey guys. You should try the King Con burger.” He smiled and winked, and she got it.
Endorsements. Felicity had probably given him a list of places to go—snap pictures, tag the place, and get some Blue Ox brand love. She might have even negotiated an ad fee.
“Not today, sorry. I think I’m going to go talk to Edward’s old townhouse neighbors and see if they can remember anything from that night.”
She might as well have dangled a piece of steak in front of a hound. Conrad’s ears all but visibly perked up, and she could have predicted his next words?—
“Have you lost your mind?”
Oh goody. They were right back to Friday night at the house of cookies. “No, Conrad. I haven’t lost my mind . I’m a mystery podcaster. I solve mysteries?—”
“Murder mysteries. Emphasis on the murder . Sheesh, Penny.” He shook his head, his hand across his mouth as if he might be trying to hold something back. His next words emerged soft, controlled. “I’m going with you.”
She cocked her head. “Conrad—c’mon?—”
“Where is his townhome?”
She sighed. “St. Anthony Main.”
“Great. Let’s swing by your house, drop off your car, and you can ride with me.”
He walked over to his car without her agreement.
“Bossy much?”
He looked over at her, then offered a slight grin. “You’re not getting away that easily, Penny.”
Who was trying to get away? Not her.
Definitely not her.
She pulled into the garage, then grabbed her bag, stepped out, and shut the car door.
“Nice digs,” he said. “It looks vintage.”
“It was built in 1927. The basement has low ceilings, but it’s cozy. I redid the office—actually gutted the entire house. One bedroom up, another on the main floor, great room, new kitchen.”
“Security?”
For some reason, she put a hand on his arm. Hello, muscles. “Yes, King Con, there is security.” She held up her remote and clicked a button. “Activated. Happy?”
“I’d prefer twenty-four-seven close protection, but . . .” He lifted a shoulder.
He didn’t look like he was kidding.
She slid into his passenger seat. Neat car, smelled recently detailed. He glanced at her. “Directions?” He turned on his display, and she read off the address. He keyed it in and pulled out.
Her father had a garage of higher-end sports cars. Not that the Charger was out of the ordinary, but it rumbled like her father’s McLaren 720S.
Silence from her date beside her.
“Thanks,” she said.
“We haven’t found anything yet.”
“Still. My sister thinks I’m obsessed . . . and maybe I am, a little.”
He glanced at her. “Bullet holes in the wall. Doesn’t sound obsessed to me.”
“Right?” She sighed. “What I don’t get is why she’s not obsessed. It was her fiancé.”
“Maybe she just needs to walk away from it.” He’d taken a few shortcuts through the neighborhood, like he knew it, and merged onto the highway headed into the city. “My brother Doyle has been stuck for years since his fiancée died. He’s finally moving on, so . . . Maybe it’s her way of coping with her grief.”
“I didn’t know Doyle was engaged.”
“She died in an accident on the way to the wedding.”
Her eyes widened. “No.”
“Yes.” He blew out a breath. “It’s a long story, but maybe letting it go is the best thing for your sister.”
He left out anything about her letting it go, however. Still . . . “Edward wasn’t my sister’s fiancé but my best friend, at least growing up. We did everything together—he was the son of our housekeeper. My dad actually helped pay his way through college, and then he went to grad school at MIT on a scholarship. Really smart. Developed an AI system. I think he was getting some offers—high offers. Anyway, I . . .” She glanced at him. “I may have had a crush on him in high school.”
Conrad’s mouth made a grim line. He looked at her. “Sorry for your loss.”
Oh. She hadn’t expected the sweep of heat into her chest, the tightening of her throat. “Usually people say that to Tia.”
“I’m sure.” Then he took his hand off the wheel, reached out and caught hers. “You still lost someone you loved.”
He let go, but his gesture lingered. She looked out the window. Nodded. Drew a breath. “It was more than that, I think.” She drew in a breath, glanced at him. “Edward was the one who found me when I was kidnapped.”