Chapter 10
TEN
The last thing he should be doing was letting Penelope Pepper back into his life, let alone his house.
But she’d looked scared. And he just couldn’t be the guy who left her on the doorstep or shoved her back into the night with glass on her jacket and trauma in her eyes.
Even if he wanted to simply leave her in the entryway and escape back to his kitchen, where an ice pack for his hip waited along with a nice rare steak and an unfinished sailing show on YouTube.
“Can I get you something?” He turned on the overhead light, chasing away the puddled luminescence from the kitchen hood. He’d sort of preferred sitting in the dark.
“How about a reason why you called me a liar?” She had shed her jacket and now came in hot behind him.
Yeah, he’d left that exploded bomb in the entryway, rattled by her gape, her wide eyes. Maybe actually moved, curious, and painfully hopeful that Felicity had been the one lying about the fake-dating agreement.
But he didn’t want to stick around to see if hope won, because his chest already hurt. And he only had so much ice for the aches.
He opened the refrigerator and stared into the light, effectively hiding his face from her as he tried to school his response. “Water?”
Silence, and he grabbed the chilled water and closed the door. She stood, arms folded, at the end of his kitchen island, her jaw tight.
As if she might be trying not to cry.
He set the bottle on the counter. “So, even now you’re going to act like it wasn’t all a game?”
“A game?” She took a breath. “Of course it was a game.”
Her words punched him, a straight shot to his sternum, and he couldn’t breathe.
“Of course it was a game.”
He shook his head, pushed the bottle toward her. “I’m such an idiot.” But he could hardly kick her back into the night, not in her current state. “Do you need me to call someone? Maybe the police?”
She just stared at him. “Why are you an idiot ?”
He held up his hand. No. He wasn’t going there. Wasn’t going to admit that she’d completely duped him.
That he’d swallowed whole the he’s my boyfriend comment, let it sit in his heart.
Let it seed ideas.
“Who was this man who broke your window?”
His question played on her face for a long moment, and then she shook her head and reached for the water bottle. Opened it. “I don’t know.” She took a drink, set it down.
Her hand shook.
He looked away.
“He tried to run me over in the parking lot, but I got away, and when I snuck back to my car, he chased me down again and broke my window with a tire iron.”
Her words made him want to walk over, pull her to himself. But stupid impulses got him into trouble. He needed to take his own advice to Justin and think.
“Why?” he said instead. “Who would want to hurt you?”
“The same person who burned down my garage?”
He nodded.
“Who might be the same person who burned Beckett’s house, and Edward’s house.”
He folded his arms. “Right.”
She took another drink, tried to cap the bottle, missed, and the cap flew out of her grip.
Shoot. He walked over, picked it up from where it had landed on the floor, then touched her arm. “Let’s sit down.”
He swiped the ice pack from the counter.
“No.”
He turned.
“You can’t call me a liar without calling yourself one. That’s completely not fair. You agreed to play the game.”
He didn’t mean to roar, but, “ What? ”
“You said yes. And frankly, I would have been fine with no, but you started it, that day with the team. So of course I was in. And sure, I probably got the most out of it—but this goes both ways, King Con.”
His mouth opened, his mind trying to sift through her words. “That day with the team—wait, do you mean the EmPowerPlay practice?”
“Yes. And the ‘date.’” She finger quoted the words. “And even the photo shoot at the Ice Hawks game. Please—you were all in.”
All. in? “Of course I was—my coach practically ordered me to do it. Sheesh, have you not met me? When I say I’ll do something, I do it.”
She swallowed, and what looked like hurt flashed across her face. Then it vanished. “Right. So you can stop calling me the liar here.” She picked up her bottle, turned away from him, and finished it off. Then walked over and threw it in the trash. “This was a bad idea.”
His mouth tightened. “Clearly.”
He might have been imagining it, but her eyes glistened. Tears.
He looked away. Don’t be fooled.
“For the record, it stopped being fake for me after . . .” She swallowed. “After you kissed me.”
He couldn’t help it. “ You kissed me .”
She gaped. “Okay, fine. But you definitely kissed me back. And then again. And that didn’t seem one bit fake?—”
“Of course it wasn’t fake!” He held up his hand as if to school his own voice. “I’m not sure what you’re thinking, but nothing I did was fake. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? One of us is playing a game, and the other isn’t.”
She blinked at him. A beat, then, “Wait. Are you suggesting I’m still playing the game?”
He shoved the ice pack against his hip. “Unless I’m mistaken, you’re the only other person in the room.”
“I just told you it stopped being fake for me?—”
“And I told you nothing about that kiss, about us, was ever fake. I don’t know where you got that idea.”
“From you!” She pressed the heels of her hands to her forehead. “You agreed to this whole thing from the very beginning!”
“To what whole thing?” And he was back to roaring.
Her eyes flashed. “To the fake dating! So we could grow our followers on social media! What did you think I was talking about?”
Her words sliced through him, all the way to the bone. “You thought I was faking too?”
A thundering beat. Her voice fell. “What are you saying?”
“What are you saying?” His breath thickened.
“I thought you were . . .” Her eyes widened.
“Faking everything,” he said softly.
“That was the agreement.”
Her broken tone, the light shake of her voice shivered through him. He set the ice on the counter. “I made no such agreement, Penny. I thought I was agreeing to coach the Ice Hawks. I had no idea that . . . this”—he gestured between them—“was a setup.”
She swallowed, caught her lip, then, “And I thought it was the only reason you wanted to be with me.”
The only reason? The fist in his chest loosed, and seeing her standing there, a tear hanging on her lashes, hurt in her eyes . . .
He forced himself not to move toward her. Instead, softly, “I don’t need a reason to be with you.”
Aw, but the words just slipped out.
Her mouth opened. Then closed. And she wiped a fallen tear from her cheek.
And that was just it . He stepped up to her, touched her face, wiped the other tear with his thumb. “Penelope, you’re smart and beautiful and brave and funny and . . . no man needs to be coerced into a game to be with you.”
His heart banged against his chest as she looked up at him, those golden-brown eyes big.
And he kissed her. Completely without thought, just instinct and impulse and desire. His hand behind her neck, pulling her up to him, kissing her with a sort of possession, a force.
A truth.
She hung her hands on his forearms as he took her face into his other hand, cradling it, deepening his kiss.
Tasting the mystery, the intoxicating person of Penelope Pepper.
And any cold left in his body turned to fire, swept over him as she relaxed, softened her mouth, and kissed him back.
“He’s my boyfriend.”
Yeah, he was.
He finally lifted his head. “That wasn’t fake.”
A smile touched her mouth. “No, it wasn’t.”
He tightened her against him, and she held him back, her arms around his waist as if they belonged together. “No more secrets, okay?”
She nodded. “Do you mind if I stay here? Just until I can figure out who is after me?”
He let her go. “My house is your house. My security system is your security system.”
She laughed then, and it loosed the final hold anger had on him.
“And your computer system?”
He nodded. “What are we searching for?”
“Why someone would want to kill Edward. Because I might be the connecting piece, but Edward is the flashpoint.”
“So, we figure out who killed Edward, and we find our arsonist.”
“That’s the hope.” She looked at him. “You don’t happen to have anything besides water, do you?”
“I’ll make you a steak.” He met her gaze again, then pressed his forehead to hers. “For the record, I like seeing you in my jersey.”
“For the record, I’m keeping it, so don’t think you’re ever getting it back.”
He kissed her forehead, shaken suddenly at how close she’d come to being seriously injured. “And next time you go meet someone in an abandoned, dark parking lot, you take me with you.” He let her go and went to his fridge. Found a ribeye and pulled it out, then headed to the stove and pulled out a cast-iron pan. Heated it as he seasoned the steak with salt and pepper. “Did Edward have any enemies?”
She’d slid onto a counter stool. “I asked Tia—she said no. He lived a very quiet life. Was a nerd, really. He was working on a highly sought-after AI program. I remember him talking about it to my father at dinner one night. He was hoping to sell it to a tech company—I think he was even entertaining a bid.”
“Quantex Dynamics?”
“No. I think they wanted it, but another company had bid for it. I can’t remember who the other company was.”
He put the steak in the pan, letting it sizzle, then grabbed his laptop from the counter, opened it, keyed in the password, and pushed it toward her. “Do you remember the name of the AI program?”
“Axiom?”
The word nudged a memory in him. “I’ve heard of that before.” He glanced at the steak, turned on his hood fan, then headed into his office just off the kitchen.
The night pressed through the high windows, and he flicked on the light. It splashed over his computer desk, the credenza behind it. He headed to his files and pulled out a thick folder. Opened it.
Yes. He still had the prospectus, the word Axiom across the top. He took it out to the kitchen, set the paper on the counter, and returned to the stove. Flipped the steak.
“Where did you get this?” she asked.
“It was a stock offering I was considering through a cybertech company I invested heavily in.” He went to the fridge, pulled out butter. “MetaGrid. They specialize in defense technology and, more important, AI applications.” He slathered the butter on the steak. “I lost my shirt on it.”
“Really?”
He covered the steak. Turned. “Over a hundred thousand dollars. They acquired Axiom, and then the offering went south, dropped in value so much that MetaGrid lost millions.”
She was typing. “Axiom is now owned by Declan Stone, as a part of his bigger company, Spectra.”
He raised an eyebrow. “He was at the wedding.”
“Yes. And he’s a friend of my father’s.”
Another memory slid in. “Now I remember why I noticed your dad’s picture on the mantel, the one with his fishing trip to Barbados.”
“He loves that picture. They caught a blue marlin, nearly a thousand pounds.”
“I remember the fish.” He turned and plated the steak. “But what I really remember is Declan Stone standing in the group. Is he on the board?”
She took the plate from him, and he added a knife and fork. “I don’t know. But”—she turned the computer toward him—“Axiom was owned by Edward. I’ll bet this was his company, and after he died, the deal with MetaGrid tanked. And then Axiom was acquired by Stone’s company, Spectra. Quantex has shares in Spectra.” She dug into the steak.
“That was probably why Declan was on the fishing trip.” He pulled the computer toward himself. Did an internet search for Quantex, clicked on the picture for the current board. No Declan Stone.
“Do you think Stone would kill Edward to get his company?”
“This steak is delicious, and I don’t know.” She got up and helped herself to another bottle of water from his fridge.
He smiled at that, her making herself at home here. He could get used to this, someone hanging out with him in his kitchen, tossing ideas around.
No, he could get used to her, hanging out with him in his kitchen. In his life.
“We could ask Stein. He works for Stone.”
She slid back onto the chair. “That’s a start.” She took a drink. “The other start is to find out where Walsh is and why he sent someone else to meet me in the parking lot.”
“Are you sure the text was from Walsh?”
“It was from his phone number, the same one he used before to text me.”
“Maybe someone got ahold of his phone. How long has it been since you’ve heard from him?”
“Since before the wedding.”
“And then he just texts you out of nowhere, the day after your house is torched?”
“Garage, but . . .” She pushed her empty plate away. “I hadn’t thought about that.”
He folded his arms over his chest. “I think the bigger question is, Did Walsh and Edward know each other?”
“Walsh owned the apartment complex, so it’s possible.”
“Do you think Edward told him about Axiom?”
“Why would it matter? Walsh was in real estate, not cybertech.” She pulled back the computer, turned it.
Frowned at the screen. “What is this picture?”
“It’s the Quantex board. I was checking to see if Stone was on it. He’s not.”
“I found the connection.” She turned the computer back around and pointed to a man in the back, sandy-brown hair, in a blue suit. “That, right there, is Derek Swindle, Walsh’s partner at S & W Management Group. I always thought he killed Edward, I just couldn’t put together why. But if Edward told Walsh, he might have told Swindle.”
He leaned in. “He’s in the same picture on the mantel. He was on the fishing trip, with Stone.”
She leaned back. “What if they knew about the offering, decided that Quantex needed it instead?”
“But that would be too suspect. So they had to launder the transaction. Swindle killed Edward, and Stone swooped in to pick up the bankrupt company, Axiom, to merge into his own.”
“Or Stone killed him,” she said.
He stilled. “Or neither. We have twelve people here who could be culpable, if we’re going that direction. Including, and I hate to say this—your father.”
She cocked a head at him. “Are you suggesting?—”
He held up a hand. “No. I like your dad. But I’m asking the question—who might benefit from this?”
“Anyone who invested in Quantex.” She’d been typing and now pulled up a chart. “This is the Quantex stock price before and then after they acquired the Spectra stock.” She turned the computer. “They had a stunning 209.9 percent, fifty-two-week rate of return last year. Their monthly rate averages over 21 percent.”
“Wow. That’s life-changing.”
“Maybe life-ending, for Edward,” she said. She closed the computer.
“Here’s the thing,” Conrad said. “We can’t connect Swindle to any of this motive without proof that he knew—or someone else knew—about the AI program. And that doesn’t prove murder. We need proof that he burned down Edward’s place and proof that connects him to the ballistics report. Which the police don’t seem to have, let alone the right forensic report.”
“Which brings us back to the argument that Sarah and Walsh had on her doorstep. Didn’t Walsh say he had the forensic report? How would he have gotten that—and why?”
Oh no. A dark swirl had started in his gut. “Penny?—”
“We need to get into Walsh’s office—probably his home office—and see if we can find the report. Maybe that’s even why he texted me?—”
“Unless he’s dead and someone else texted you!” He didn’t mean to raise his voice.
Okay, maybe he did. He picked up her plate and put it in the dishwasher. Closed it with more force that he’d planned.
She said nothing. But she was smiling, almost conspiratorial.
“I don’t like that look.”
“Like I said. We need to get into Walsh’s house.”
He closed his eyes. “No, Pen.”
“Yes. If Walsh has a different forensic report than the police, we need to know why . . . and who has the power to suppress evidence with the police.”
He should call Stein, because only one person came to mind. A guy with power, money, and his own security force.
“Whoever can do that is behind the murders of at least four people.” Her gaze hit him hard. “And the attempt on me.”
Aw, and that was the twist, wasn’t it? If he wanted to keep her safe, he needed to find out who was chasing her down, setting her home on fire, and trying to run her over. “That is a very bad idea.”
She leaned forward. “But you still want to do it, don’t you?”
“If it means keeping you safe . . .” He shook his head. “How much trouble are you going to get me into, woman?”
Her eyes glowed. “Thanks, King Con. You’re my hero.”
And what was he supposed to do with that?
* * *
It’d bothered her all night—the scream into the air as she’d pulled away in the parking lot. She knew that voice.
Or maybe she simply feared she did because Conrad’s question about who would benefit by killing Edward had stuck inside her like a burr.
Her father. Who helped run the board of the major stockholder of the company Edward had helped build.
Had he known that Edward planned on selling it to MetaGrid, Quantex’s competitor?
Except he’d loved Edward, right? He’d paid for Edward’s schooling, been supportive of the man’s engagement to Tia.
It didn’t make sense, and she’d tossed the night away in Conrad’s spare room, in his überluxurious king bed, staring at the beams in his slant-vaulted ceiling, their conversation lighting up inside her.
And not just the speculation about Edward’s killer or the anticipation of breaking into Walsh’s home, but the words from Conrad when he’d accused her of lying.
Of faking their relationship.
“Nothing about that kiss, about us, was ever fake.” And she had nothing for his soft words, the way they’d crept inside her, found tender, raw soil. “I don’t need a reason to be with you.”
The man could make her weep, especially when he’d made her the extra bed and told her to not be afraid. The way he’d stood in the hallway, an outline of safety and protection, when he’d mentioned that his bedroom was right down the hall, and if she got scared, to just shout.
Since she’d promised no more faking, she couldn’t suddenly scream just to test his words, right?
So she’d stared at the ceiling instead, also trying to figure out how to get into Walsh’s house. She’d pulled up his location in a western suburb—he lived in an older house, remodeled, but the windows looked original, which meant the locks could be old . . .
Now she’d turned into a cat burglar.
What if Walsh was simply home, and she knocked on the front door?
She turned that what-if over in her head for a long time, trying out the scenario where he would have texted her, set her up like bait, then sent a henchman to do her in.
That nearly made her send out a real scream, but by then it was five a.m., so she sent a text to Clarice.
Penelope
Back off the social media posts. It’s over.
That should make Conrad happy. No more faking for the public.
Penelope finally smelled bacon frying and rolled out of bed. Probably needed a shower, but she settled for clean teeth (he’d left her a new brush and paste in the bathroom), pulled back her hair, and emerged feeling a little edgy, hungry, and ready to commit crimes.
The first might be stealing pieces of crispy bacon from the tray on the counter. Conrad stood at the stove, wearing faded jeans, a Blue Ox T-shirt that stretched over his chest and his muscled biceps, and wielding a pancake spatula.
Eggs sizzled in the cast-iron pan.
The barest shimmer of sunlight cast across the lake, the night still heavy around them even in the wee hours of the morning. She glanced at the clock.
“Six a.m. You always get up this early?”
“It’s not early. And I like my first workout to be before breakfast.” He gestured to a French press on the counter. “You’ll find cream and sugar in the containers.”
She fixed herself a cup of coffee in a mug that said Coffee, the official power play, and slid onto a stool.
“Scrambled? Or over easy?” He held up a couple eggs.
“Scrambled.”
He broke them into the sizzling pan.
“It’s like sitting up at the counter in the kitchen, having Edward’s mom cook for me. She used to make me pancakes with chocolate chip faces.”
“I’m fresh out of chocolate chips, but I could whip up a cake for you.” He looked over and winked.
And there was nothing remotely fake about the way her heart just took off, soared inside her. Yes, she could very much love this man.
Might already be halfway there.
“So, I did a search and found Walsh’s address on his formation documents for S & W Management,” she said. “I pulled up his house on maps and did a walk around. It’s a pretty old house. And it looks like he’s in the middle of the remodel project. I went onto the city website, and he’s pulled a permit for a bathroom and kitchen remodel.”
He plated the eggs. “So, you’re still thinking a B & E?”
“No. I have a better idea.”
“One that doesn’t end with us in the clink?” He handed her the plate. “I also did a check—he has a security system. It’s not a fancy one, just an internet company. I think if we take out his internet, we at least have a chance of getting in before we get detected.” He grimaced. “I can’t believe I’m saying any of this.”
“So, you’re still in.”
“If it means keeping you out of jail, or worse, a coffin, yes.” He took a sip of coffee, then set the mug back down. “But the first hint of sirens, we’re gone, okay?”
“Okay.”
He dove into his eggs.
She’d sort of lost her appetite. The last, very last, thing she wanted was for him to end up compromising his career. “Maybe this is a bad idea. . . .”
“We’re not going to steal anything, right?”
“In theory.”
He sighed. “Fact is, what’s been going through my mind is simply that Walsh might be in trouble. Who knows that he’s not lying dead in his home right now?” He drained his orange juice, then he slid off the stool, put his dishes in the washer, and headed to his office.
She, too, finished. “What are you doing?”
He returned with his tablet, the digital map pulled up. “Okay, he lives on a dead-end street, so there won’t be much traffic. I think we do a drive-by and then figure out how to get in.”
“Perfect.” She took the paper. “If my hunch is right, this might be easier than we think.”
He eyed her, but then swept up his keys and jacket, pulled on a wool hat, and donned his gloves. Led her down the stairs to his garage. He opened the garage door, and there sat her pitiful car, the front driver’s window destroyed.
He surveyed the wreckage. “Yikes.”
“Yeah.” She’d pulled on her jacket, her boots, hat, gloves. And now seeing the damage sent a shudder through her.
“I don’t suppose you called the police?”
“And let them take the car into the impound? No. Besides, my dad is freaked out enough.”
“He’s not the only one.” He glanced at her.
Oh?
And then he put his arm around her, pulled her against himself. “C’mon. The sooner we get answers, the sooner we solve this, and the sooner you’re safe.”
Maybe they should go back inside, forget this crazy idea.
She climbed in, and he set the GPS and headed west.
Darkness still sat around them in the early-morning hour, and he’d flicked on his headlights, a few cars negotiating the icy pavement as he pulled out onto Highway 7.
“Thanks for doing this.”
He wore a dark hat, a black jacket, and almost looked like a burglar. Except they weren’t going to burgle anything, really. He glanced at her. Winked.
Oh boy.
He slowed and turned off his lights as they pulled into the man’s neighborhood. The house sat at the end of a long drive, all black with wooden accents, clearly remodeled and updated, at least on the outside. The kitchen-remodel permit he’d pulled was dated only two months ago.
“He’s home,” Conrad said as he slowed. A late-model Acura MDX sat in the driveway, its roof covered in an inch of snow, the windows frosted over.
“Maybe. Or maybe he just has to park outside because his garage is full of appliances and remodeling supplies.”
He glanced at her. “That’s your hunch.”
“Yes, and . . . pull into the driveway.”
“So we can be caught on camera?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Listen, we can say we were doing a welfare check.”
He shook his head but parked behind the Acura. She got out and looked in the car. There, on the visor—the garage-door opener.
“Let’s knock first,” Conrad said and headed up the steps to the front door. She followed him, stood under the porch, and listened to the bell chime. Darkness bled through the sidelight window.
He rang again and waited. “Just in case he’s in bed.”
And not dead. But she didn’t say that out loud.
“I think he’s not here.”
She turned and headed down the steps, past the Acura, to his truck. “Can you pop your hood?”
He frowned but reached into his driver’s side and opened the hood.
“I need to borrow your hood stand.” She held the hood open.
“Why?”
“It’s a trick I learned from a previous boyfriend. He used to lock his keys in his car all the time.”
Conrad loosed the stand from the base, then gently closed the top.
She’d reached into his car and grabbed a snow scraper.
Then she peered into the Acura. It had a simple lock tab above the door handle. She just needed to flip it.
“How—”
“Watch and learn.” She worked the edge of the scraper into the door, pushing the top of the door open and wedging the scraper in to crack open the top of the door. Then she fed the hood latch inside, angling it down to the lock tab. It took a couple attempts, but she hooked the tab and flipped it forward. The door unlocked.
“You can’t use a regular wire hanger because it’s too flimsy.” She pulled out the hood stand and opened the door. Then she reached in and deployed the garage-door opener.
“You scare me.”
“Murder podcaster. You learn stuff.”
She closed the door and handed him back the hood stand. He stuck it in his front seat, then they headed to the garage.
Sawhorses, cabinets covered in tarps, new appliances in boxes . . . “I remember this mess when I remodeled my kitchen.”
He glanced at her. “Are you sure you grew up in that giant house I saw?”
“I just wanted to see if I could do it.” She made her way to the inside door. “Fact was, yes, I had the money to hire it out, but where’s the fun of that?”
She made to push inside, but he held out his arm.
“Let me go first.”
Her hands went up in surrender. “Knock yourself out.”
He gave her a look and stepped inside. “Mr. Walsh? Are you here?”
The basement entry held a few work jackets and boots, sawdust, and the scent of oil and age. Conrad pushed open the inner door.
The basement had survived the passage of time, resting soundly in 1967, with an orange shag carpet and an old soot-blackened fireplace. A black leather sofa sat on the floor facing a massive flatscreen propped up on a couple end tables.
“I’ll bet he was house hacking this,” said Penelope.
“What’s that?”
“Where you buy a home, live in it, flip it, and sell it within two years to avoid paying capital gains.”
“Smart,” said Conrad.
“You do investments, I do real estate. I’m an HGTV junkie.”
He smiled and then headed to the stairs. The first riser creaked and he stilled, then held out his hand to her.
“You shouted his name. My guess is that if he was here, that might have alerted him more than a little creak in the stair.”
“Right.”
They headed upstairs into the main area.
The kitchen—or where there might have been one—sat gutted, the floor ripped up, walls studded in, electrical wiring running between the joists. The scent of paint ripened the air.
A wall had been removed between the living room and the kitchen, just a beam running across where the load-bearing wall had been, a couple posts holding it up.
“It’ll be nice once it’s finished,” Conrad said. He glanced down the hallway. “What do you think?”
“Let’s try it.” She opened the first door. “Storage.”
“I got something here,” he said, sticking his head into the next room. “Table, and a printer and a computer.”
She joined him, and in the room, with stained Berber carpet, sat a table with a straight chair, and on top, a closed computer. She opened it and woke it up.
“We need a password,” she said.
Conrad looked through the papers on the table. “Nothing here but receipts. One is for a ticket to Barbados, for over a month ago.”
“Yeah. I talked to him before then, and he dodged my questions and said he was leaving town. I’ll bet that’s where he is.”
He picked up a business card. “This is a PI’s card. Didn’t he say he hired an arson investigator?”
“Yes.”
He pocketed the card.
“I can’t get into the computer.” She looked at him. “But why would he leave his computer if he was going out of town?”
He stared back. “Maybe he came back and really did contact you last night.”
“So . . . who tried to run me over?”
He frowned. Sighed. “Good question.”
Then he stepped out of the room. She followed.
He opened the last door. And his arm flew out.
She stopped, peered over his arm. Stilled.
A bedroom, and a man lay at the foot of the bed, clearly dead, lying in a puddle of rusty blood, a hole in his chest.
She put her hand to her nose, the smell faint, so clearly he hadn’t been dead long.
“Walsh?” Conrad said.
She leaned past him to look, and everything inside her froze. “That’s Derek Swindle.”
Conrad turned and pushed her from the room. “Don’t touch anything.”
“I’m wearing gloves!” She went in for the computer, but he grabbed her. “Leave it!”
“What—”
“We’re at a murder scene. We broke into Walsh’s house, Penny! Let’s move.” He pushed her down the hall.
“But what if it has something on it?”
He rounded on her. “Whoever killed Swindle clearly wasn’t interested in the computer. So whatever is on it doesn’t matter. And I don’t want to be charged with theft too. What does matter is?—”
A siren. Deep in the neighborhood, lifting, and he stilled, his eyes widening.
“C’mon.” She grabbed his hand, pulled him across the kitchen to the stairway, then down and out through the garage.
The whining grew louder. She closed the garage door on their way out.
He was already in the truck, engine on, when she climbed in. He pulled out, nearly without looking, put it in gear, and drove up the road, glancing in the rearview mirror.
No cops. But the siren still blared.
“Just drive normal.”
“What’s normal when you’re fleeing from a crime scene?” He glanced at her.
“Normal is not running stop signs.” She pointed at an upcoming sign, and he slammed the brakes.
Just a neighborhood intersection, but the tires slid on the pavement, and he had to pump the brakes to keep the truck from careering into the ditch.
Ahead of them, on the next road, a police car screamed past them.
Penny put her hand on Conrad’s arm, the sinewed muscles tight. “Just breathe.”
He gave her a look.
“What?”
“I never want to do that again.”
“Find a dead body?”
He shook his head, then leaned it back against the seat. Closed his eyes. He looked a little pale.
“Conrad, are you having another panic attack?”
“I think this might be a cardiac arrest.” He put his hand on his chest.
Oh my . Yes, this had been a bad idea. She turned in her seat. “We’re fine. We didn’t really commit a crime. We could call it a wellness check.”
His mouth tweaked, a tiny smile.
“You’re having fun.”
“I’m not. For the love. In the world I live in, it was a crime, Penny.”
“Then why are you grinning?”
He opened his eyes. “I’m not.”
“You’re totally grinning.”
“Yeah, well, it’s better than panicking!”
She raised an eyebrow.
He sat up. Turned to her, his eyes wide.
“What?”
“You. Wow.”
“What? I don’t?—”
“You’re the answer.”
“To . . . world peace?”
He sat up, holding on to the steering wheel, staring ahead. “I got my first panic attack when I made the Duck Lake paper after the Zamboni accident. It was just a police report, but I was horrified. I’d been this sports hero and then . . .” He shook his head. “I felt naked, and exposed, and then I had a full-out episode. My sister Austen was there—saw the entire thing. I started seeing a therapist after that, and mostly it went away. But it’s still there whenever—” He blew out another breath. “Whenever those feelings of helplessness, or maybe even embarrassment, show up.”
He made a wry face. “Or, of course, when I think I’m going to be arrested.”
Right . “So hanging out with me triggers panic. That’s beautiful.”
He wore a small expression of horror and she laughed.
“No, Penny, that’s the thing. I’ve been living with panic my entire life until . . . you.”
“Me?”
“You . . . you make me, I don’t know—forget it, I guess. Or maybe focus on something else.”
“Like my craziness.”
“Like you.” His gaze held hers.
Oh.
A beep behind them, and she looked back. They were blocking the road, halfway in the intersection.
He put the truck into Drive and pulled out. Seemed to nod to himself. Glanced at her with a look that turned her entire body warm.
“You.”
“I need a cookie.”
“Me too.” She sighed. He was heading west, out of town. “Where are we going?”
“We’re going to Duck Lake. I need to talk to Jack and figure out how much trouble we’re in. And to get a cookie.”
* * *
Emberly caught up with Declan and Stein on the corner of Rosselló and Gràcia, the blue sky arching overhead, the dawn bleeding in through the whitewashed buildings, the greening parkway, the temperatures brisk as Barcelona woke up.
This would work.
Four days of surveillance, and she realized it didn’t have to be that complicated. Could be easy, even.
As long as Stein didn’t recognize her. But really—three years and a lifetime ago, the world in chaos and the trauma of their disastrous escape should have knocked her out of his brain.
Except, of course, her exit from his life—as he lay in the rubble and bled out—must have imprinted on his brain.
She’d have to take her chances.
“Good morning.” She wore her short blonde wig from the reception, had donned a pair of leggings, a running bra, a pullover that suggested she worked out regularly.
Yes. Just not on the streets of Barcelona. She might as well be holding an American flag above her head. But it seemed no one noticed this morning, and the sidewalks felt almost empty.
The traffic, however, had started to build on the streets, bicyclists whizzing by in the bike lane between the sidewalk and the street.
She grabbed her knees as if breathing hard, waiting for the light beside Declan. She didn’t spare Stein a glance. Better to pretend he didn’t exist.
“Mornin’,” Declan said. He hadn’t shaved yet today, wore a hint of an exotic aura about him, his pale gray eyes casting on her as she stood up. It didn’t feel unusual to him at all that a woman might smile over at him, hope to catch his attention.
He smiled back. “Are you at the conference?”
She jogged in place. “Yeah. I caught your seminar on AI-Driven Decision-Making in High-Stakes Environments. I appreciated you adding the human element. Computers can make mistakes too?—”
“Only when they don’t factor in the nuances of human personality,” Declan said. Stein glanced at her, but she didn’t meet his eyes.
“They run scenarios based on outside factors—weather, tactics, mission success—but they forget the unpredictability of the human heart,” she said.
“Precisely. Who are you?”
“Avery McMillan. From the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. Department head of computer science.”
He considered her for a moment, then nodded. “Right. I heard about your research into predictive analysis.”
“Absolutely. It’s about mapping the right factors, from health care to global threats.”
The light changed and they headed out across the street.
One more block, then they’d cross the street and—well, hopefully by then, Declan would trust her enough to want to save her.
“You submitted a paper on ethical concerns,” Declan said.
Well, Avery had. But poor Avery had gotten a severe case of food poisoning right before getting on a plane to Barcelona, so . . . “Of course.” They hit the sidewalk, kept running, stopped talking as she kept up with him.
Although he slowed a little, probably for her sake.
Stein ran behind them both. His gaze burned into the back of her neck. Calm down, sailor. She just wanted a little blood and she’d be on her way.
It still irked her that he’d chosen Stone for his comeback into the security world.
They slowed as they reached the next light, to cross over the double-lane road and head back to the hotel on the other side.
This felt too easy, really. “It’s not just about the efficacy of the prediction, but again, the human factor. Nuances and life events, the human heart. We can’t base our decisions on what might be, according to what AI says. Otherwise, we find ourselves in Minority Report, only with a computer deciding our fate.”
“ Minority Report ?”
“It’s a movie, sir. Starring Tom Cruise.” This from Stein, standing behind them.
She ignored him. “In it, people are targeted for the crimes they might commit in the future and jailed for those future actions.”
Declan raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I see the problem.”
“You can’t blame people for something they haven’t done.”
And just like that, her words pinged against her. Through her. Touched her bones.
No, this was different. Declan was a . . . well, he’d already sold dangerous technology to the American DOD, and she’d been privy to a conversation he’d had with at least two global leaders, from Germany and Ukraine.
He couldn’t be trusted. Frankly, no one with this kind of powerful technology should be trusted?—
She turned to him, standing on the edge of the curb, and that’s when she did it—lost her balance, her arms pedaling?—
Screamed—not a lot, but enough to enact whatever latent hero gene Declan had.
He reached out for her as she nearly dumped into the bike lane. She turned, as if trying to catch herself, and bam, just like that, brought her elbow up into his face.
He jerked back, one hand on her waist, the other to his face?—
Blood spurted out of his nose.
“Oh!” She turned, wore horror on her face.
The traffic whizzed by. He stumbled, holding his nose, blood pouring down his face.
“I’m so sorry—” She stepped up to him, grabbed the cotton handkerchief from her pocket.
She just needed a teaspoon, enough to extract the sample for the bio-key. Shoving the handkerchief toward him, she stepped up. “Let me help?—”
He’d backed away, thrown out his arm, and of course, Stein had jumped in.
Declan bent over, letting the blood spill on the sidewalk. She put her hand to his back, practically shoved her handkerchief in his face. He grabbed it, her hand still holding on.
And maybe it was her movement, maybe she’d stepped too hard into him, maybe she’d hit him harder than she’d thought, but he stumbled.
Fell.
And he took her with him.
They tumbled into the bike lane, with the morning commuters pedaling hard.
Screams, and she looked up just in time to spot two bicyclists braking hard. She threw up her arms, turned away?—
The bicycle hit her with the force of a truck, launching her into the air, the pavement coming back at her fast—too fast.
She put out her hand to brace her fall, felt the crack radiate up her arm.
Then she rolled onto the pavement. Squealing brakes. Screaming.
Everything went dark.