Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
“What if she’s not there?” Conrad sat, his hand on the dash, bracing himself as Jack thundered up the dirt road, following the GPS that Harper had sent him.
“One thing at a time,” Jack said. “If she’s not there, we regroup, and by that time, the police catch up.” He glanced over at Conrad. “We’ll find her.”
Conrad nodded, his jaw tight. He leaned back, his feet braced on the floorboards, his hand moving to the handle above the window. “At least you don’t drive like a grandma.”
Jack glanced at him. “Please. I taught you how to drive.”
“Stein taught me how to drive.”
“I remember one distinct driving session?—”
“You yelled at me, and I panicked, drove out into an intersection and stopped. You were terrifying.”
Jack grinned. “You were always a little tightly wound.”
They’d turned onto a county road, the GPS indicating a driveway ahead. “I’ve been tightly wound since the day I went through the ice.”
Jack turned quiet. “I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah. Just always waiting for the earth to crack under my feet. I live with a weird desperation inside, always fighting to get out?—”
“Hence the panic attacks.”
He nodded.
“And your focus on hockey.”
“For a long time, yes. Although . . . I dunno. I started focusing on the fear of getting traded, and that messed up my game . . . and then I met Penelope. She sort of . . . gives me something to focus on. I forget about the roil inside when I’m with her.”
He hadn’t quite labeled it yet, but yes.
“So, Penelope Pepper, for all her craziness, outcrazies the crazy inside,” Jack said. He looked over at Conrad. “I get that more than you know.”
“Harper.”
“She’s always been the one.”
“I didn’t think there was a one for me until I met Penny.”
Jack slowed, working his brakes on the slick road, then turned into the wooded drive. “We’ll find her.”
Conrad drew in a breath.
“You could pray.”
He glanced at Jack.
“Just saying that if you need something to focus on, you could try God’s love. His provision, His help.”
“I’m not sure?—”
“That God is going to show up for you?”
He shrugged, still trying to get Joe’s words into his head.
“God’s grace is bigger than your mistakes. At least, that’s what I’m starting to figure out. And you’ve got to stop worrying so much. Thinking so hard. Trust those instincts God gave you.”
A house came into view, and Conrad sat up. It sprawled across the frozen landscape, a miniature version of the Pepper estate.
“I know you’re constantly trying to figure out how not to repeat your mistakes, how to make everything turn out okay. But you can’t do that, Con. Even if you’re in charge. So, who would you rather trust—you, or the God who loves you?”
“Both. There’s a Lexus in the drive—the door is open.”
“I see it.” Jack pulled up, slamming on his brakes, skidding, and Conrad barreled out of the car, his gaze already finding the open door to a solarium.
He took off, driven by impulse more than strategy, and yes, he had to believe Jack was right about God. Because no, he didn’t trust himself, not completely.
So he had only one choice left.
He slipped on the terra-cotta tile, nearly fell, grabbed a wrought-iron table, then took off into the house.
Jack came in behind him. “Con—be careful!”
Right.
He came into a breezeway, the floor bright-red brick, then into a butler’s pantry attached to an expansive kitchen with a center island, French country off-white cabinetry, and a hanging copper hood over the center grill.
Despite the remodel, the place still hit him as . . . old.
He entered a dining room that looked out to the lake and spotted a boathouse down by the water. There was a zinc fireplace with a leaded mirror over the top, and the place smelled of oiled wood.
What if she was hiding? Jack had entered the living room, and Conrad found him there, standing on a white area rug, breathing hard. “We need to split up.” Jack pointed toward the upstairs. “I’ll check the bedrooms?—”
“I know where she’d hide,” Conrad said. He walked into the foyer that connected to the front door, a split staircase dividing the room. Not unlike the foyer at the King’s Inn. He opened a door— yep, a bathroom.
The other led downstairs, just like he’d hoped.
Jack ran upstairs, his feet pounding on the treads.
Conrad headed down, found a billiards room, a theater, a wine-storage room, the smells of water, age.
Which meant— yes. It had to have cold storage. He scrambled back upstairs into the kitchen, found the door off the pantry that led down.
These stairs creaked, age having turned them brittle. The walls were cinderblock, and lower, stone. A poured-concrete floor, uneven, cobwebs clinging to the walls. Mustiness, the scent of dirt and stone, a cool dampness to the air, and the sweet aroma of apples.
Warped wooden shelves lined the walls, the darkness thickening the farther he went from the stairwell, but there at the end of the room, a door.
The rusty knob wiggled in his grip. Please ? —
He pulled it open. The door groaned, and he braced himself.
Just a room with a dirt floor, empty save for the wooden shelving and a potato bin.
No Penelope.
And probably this had been a stupid idea—why would she return to the one place that haunted her?
Think!
He turned and scrambled back upstairs, out of the butler’s pantry. He’d find Jack and?—
The blow hit him along his back, almost like a check into the boards, and he slammed against the counter. Fire exploded in his hip.
But he’d been hit before and knew how to round back. He caught the second blow—a fireplace poker—with his hand.
Why the man hadn’t just shot him, he didn’t know, but Franco jerked back. Blood on his mouth, so maybe Penelope had gotten a kick in.
And that galvanized Conrad.
He listened to his instincts and charged.
Catching the man around the waist, he propelled him back against the island, heard a whuff, then sent a fist into his gut.
Not before Franco cuffed him in the ribs, but he’d taken tougher punches before.
Franco grunted, hit him again, added a knee, but Conrad dodged it. He grabbed Franco around the neck, pushed him down into the crook of his body, tightening his hold.
“Bro! Ease up—you’ll break his neck!”
He looked up to see Jack scrambling toward him.
Franco used the moment to elbow him in the thigh—near miss, but it shook him off-balance enough for the man to break free.
Jack jumped in, took him down, his knee to Franco’s shoulder, wrenched his hand back.
Franco swore at him, kicked, and Conrad landed on his legs. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know!” He writhed and Jack bore down on him. “She got away!”
Good girl. “You got this?”
“Secure his legs.”
Conrad pulled off his belt, wrestled the man’s legs together.
“Now a lamp cord.”
What? But he scrambled off Franco. Franco fought, but Jack pushed his hand against the man’s neck, held him to the floor. Conrad yanked a cord from a lamp in the living room, raced back.
Held him as Jack looped the cord around one wrist, pulled it back to meet the other. Then he sat on the man, who was still shouting, swearing. “This will hold until we get help. Find her.”
“Penny!” Conrad stood up, ran to the living room. “Penny, come out—you’re safe!”
Nothing but creaking in the old house, never mind Franco’s shouts.
Then, in the distance, a motor sounded.
He ran to the dining room, and out at the boathouse saw?—
A snowmobile. And on it, Penny, gunning out of the house, right toward?—
“Penny! No!”
He took off through the kitchen. “She’s going out onto the lake!”
He had to give her props for getting away, for thinking, but for a girl who’d grown up on a lake, she should know?—
And even as he cleared the house, running out into the snowy yard, toward the lake, he saw it happen.
The snowmobile cracked through the ice, its back end breaking through not far from shore but enough that the current could grab her.
She fell and disappeared as the machine slipped into the water.
“Penny!” He ran to the edge of the lake and didn’t stop. Just kept running, toward the hole thirty feet from shore, the hole that was widening as her head popped up and she grabbed at the ice.
Around them, the trees cracked in the wind, his breath and the crunch of snow breaking the air?—
“Conrad!”
She’d spotted him.
“Hang on—hang on !”
But she slipped, vanished again, and he dove across the ice, his body landing, skidding through the snow?—
Not far enough. She’d floated out into the middle.
He tore off his jacket, slapped it to her. She grabbed the arm— good girl —and he used it to reel her in. Then he caught her wrist. Grabbed her up, pulled her to the surface, the water brutal, stinging. He fisted her jacket with his other hand and yanked her to the edge.
She sputtered, shook her head, gasped. Whimpered. “Don’t let me go—don’t let me go?—”
“I got you.” He searched her face. A bruise on her cheek, fear in her eyes.
The ice cracked beneath him. She screamed.
“Just stay calm!”
“You’re not calm!” Her eyes sparked.
Yeah, well, if he pulled her up, they’d both go in, the ice splintering beneath him even as he held her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have stayed at the jail?—”
“What? No—babe. I told you to go?—”
“I didn’t leave—not really. It was just?—”
“Fake. I know.” He smiled then, his hands gripping her jacket, holding her up. He’d lost feeling in his grip, and she’d started to slow her tread, probably turning hypothermic, dipping into the water.
“We need to get you out. Can you climb over me?”
“You’ll go in.”
Probably. “I’ll be fine.” He met her eyes, held there by the emotion in them. Fear, yes, but . . . trust. And maybe even hope.
And all the panic simply silenced, the terrible whirring inside stopped. And all he could think was . . . “God’s grace is bigger than your mistakes . ”
Bigger than his impulses. Bigger than his fears. Bigger than his panic.
Bigger than his past.
And maybe, even though the world dropped out beneath him, God had him.
Okay, God, I got her. I need You to have me.
He started to shake, gritted his teeth. “Hang on, Penny. Help is coming.”
And then, just like that—“Conrad, hold on!”
He glanced behind him and spotted Jack, and what looked like Harper and a couple deputies easing their way out onto the ice. Conrad worked his arms under Penelope, pulled her up to himself. “Listen, when I tell you, kick hard. I’m going to pull you up, and you hang on to me and don’t let go.”
Hands grabbed his feet, and he hooked them together, gave Jack something to pull. “Ready?”
Behind him, Harper had grabbed Jack’s waistbelt. “Go, Con!”
Penelope kicked and Conrad pulled her up, and Jack yanked on his feet and the trio slid back, enough for Penelope to slide mostly free.
The ice beneath Conrad cracked, water slicking up. “Keep pulling, Jack!” But the ice kept breaking.
Penelope had found her knees, scrambling onto the ice, but started to sink. Conrad stopped thinking. He leaned up, grabbed her against himself, and rolled. Onto his back, then over, cradling her, and then again to his back, away from the hole.
Jack had fallen back, into the snow, scrambling hard away from the gaping hole.
Conrad let her go, sat up. “Move, move!” He grabbed the back of her jacket, propelling them away from the cracking ice.
Then he found his feet, scooped her up against himself, and they ran, fell, scrambled onto the shore.
He dropped onto his hands and knees, shaking, gulping in breaths as Penelope collapsed beside him, drawing up to the fetal position, shaking.
“Okay, we got you,” said Harper, pouncing on Penelope with a blanket. “We need some help over here!”
“I’m fine—I’m fine!”
But Conrad looked at her. “You’re not fine. You’re bruised, and hypothermic?—”
“Did you get him?” She pulled the blanket tight, her teeth chattering. “Franco—did you get him?”
“We got him,” Jack said.
She smiled, and then turned to Conrad, so much emotion in her eyes it heated Conrad all the way through. “You came for me.”
He gave a laugh, a huff. “Of course I did.”
Her eyes shone. “I knew I could count on you.”
Yes. Yes, she could. And then he followed his next crazy impulse, trusted his instincts, and kissed her.
And he didn’t care who saw it, what pictures might land on social media. Didn’t care that he’d lost his jacket, his clothes plastered to his body, Mr. June, in February.
Didn’t care what might be ahead or behind. Just sank into the moment.
Finally he lifted his head. “I love you, Penelope Pepper. Just so we’re clear. I love you.”
Her mouth opened, still shivering a little, and then she smiled. “I thought we broke up.”
“I can’t keep up. But you shouldn’t believe everything you read on the internet.” Then he wrapped his arms around her, for, you know, body warmth, and kissed her again.
* * *
“And that about wraps it up for this final edition of ‘The Case of Sarah Livingston,’ the baffling and tragic case of Sarah Livingston. Thank you for tuning in today as we unraveled the final threads of a mystery that has taken us on quite the journey.”
Penelope stood in the hallway outside the locker room area of the Blue Ox, one of her EarPods in, listening to the final take of her episode dropping tomorrow night.
Harper wore the other Bluetooth EarPod, leaning against the brick wall, her hand in Jack’s. He scrolled through his phone, probably searching the latest missing-persons reports.
Through the double doors and down the hallway, a hum rose from the locker room, where reporters peppered the team about their win against the Florida Chill.
A win that’d had Conrad scoring one of the three goals.
Her picture, the one with Penelope wearing his jersey, had probably already hit social media, but she hadn’t even looked.
Instead, she put her hand over her other ear, still listening to herself. “Over the last few episodes, we’ve dissected alibis, motives, and secrets. In the end, Franco’s actions were driven by a tangled web of greed and panic. It’s a classic motive, yet it never ceases to disturb how these base instincts can drive one to the unthinkable.”
Harper gave her the thumbs-up, clearly happy with the monologue she’d helped write.
“In our quest for truth, we encountered numerous moments when panic could have swayed our judgment, when fear could have clouded our path. But here, in this space we’ve created together, we chose to push through. We chose to seek out the truth, believing firmly that it would prevail.”
Sounds came from down the hallway, where a few players had emerged. She spotted Wyatt Marshall, the goalie, pushing through the double doors, his hair still wet, carrying a bag over his shoulder. His wife Coco and their son ran over from where they sat on a sofa near the door. He caught them up. Sweet.
“And this brings us to a vital lesson, one that transcends the confines of our podcast and applies to every aspect of our lives: We must never let panic dictate our actions. Fear is a powerful motivator, yes, but it’s also a misleading guide. It propels us toward quick fixes, urgent cover-ups, and, as in Franco’s case, disastrous decisions.”
This was her favorite part. She met Harper’s eyes.
“To quote a wise woman I know, ‘It’s always the right time to do the right thing.’ This isn’t just a saying—it’s a principle. As we close this chapter and this case, I encourage you, my listeners, to be not just seekers of mystery but also seekers of truth in your own lives. Challenge the shadows of fear and greed. Embrace the light of honesty and integrity. And remember, the truth is not just about finding answers—it’s about finding peace.”
The outro music played. “And now, as we part ways, I leave you with a quote from the queen of mystery herself, Agatha Christie: ‘The truth, however ugly in itself, is always curious and beautiful to seekers after it.’ This is Penny for Your Thoughts. Remember, in a world full of puzzles, your thoughts might just be the missing piece. See you next time—toodles!”
She clicked pause on her phone and removed her EarPod.
“It’s perfect,” Harper said, handing her the one from her ear. “So, what’s your next case?”
She put the EarPods back in their case. “I think maybe I’ll take a break.”
“What?” Jack said. “I think we can find you something riveting.” He’d pocketed his phone, glancing through the double door.
Oh, she already had something riveting, and he was walking toward her, his blond hair wet and curly, long around his ears, his beard trimmed, those perfect red highlights turning him into a sort of Norse warrior.
His gaze on her landed in her bones and lit them, a spark in his blue eyes suggesting he’d seen her on the jumbotron rooting for him.
Her man.
Harper stepped up to her. “By the way, did he mention if he’s getting traded?”
“I think after Dad found out how he saved my life, he might have found an advocate.” She looked at Harper. “But for the record, where he goes, I go.”
Harper raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t give me that, Miss I’m Taking Measurements for My Stuff in the Jack-o’-Bus.”
Harper laughed and King Con came out through the open doors, took two steps, dropped his duffel, and swept Penelope up in an embrace.
Her feet left the floor, her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, her mouth pressed to his.
All in, for the world to see.
He tasted of some energy drink he’d consumed, and smelled of the woods, spice, the soap from his shower, and felt like a man who would reach into the darkness to pull her free.
Had done that , actually.
He leaned back. “This is serious PDA.”
“Get used to it.” She kissed him again but then let him put her down. He took her hand in his.
“Nice jersey.”
“Told you that you weren’t getting it back.”
“I might have to try.” He winked and her eyes widened, and then he grinned, squeezed her hand. “Just kidding. For now.”
Oh.
He picked up his duffel.
“Great game, bro,” Jack said. “Thanks for the tickets.”
“Anytime.”
“But—what was the deal with that last pass? You had a clear shot to goal.”
“Blade had a better shot. The Chill goalie read me, and I was glove side. Blade had a better power shot?—”
“Wow. Strategy.”
“Impulse.” He winked. “And strategy.”
Behind them, Blade came walking outside. His duffel hung over his shoulder, and his arm draped around the shoulders of a woman who held his hand, fingers laced through his.
“Hey, Ava. Blade,” Conrad said.
Blade held up a fist to Conrad. “Thanks, King. You were right.” They bumped fists. He kept walking.
“What was that about?” Jack said, looping his arm around Harper.
“That was me telling him to loosen up and enjoy the game. To stop thinking so hard. It’s freezing him up.”
Jack raised an eyebrow.
“Whatever,” Conrad said. “It’s good advice.”
Jack laughed. “Sammy’s?”
Conrad looked at Penelope, heat in his eyes. “I have something else in mind.” Her eyes widened, and he leaned close. “How about a cookie?”
“You know how to woo a girl.”
He led her outside, under the star-strewn sky, where the wind stirred around them, the night full of mystery and even magic, then pulled her into his arms, away from the paparazzi and prying eyes. “No, Penny. You’re still a mystery. But I’m just curious enough to try to solve it.”
“Give it your best shot, King Con.”
He laughed, his gaze in hers. “Brace yourself. Because I’m very good at this game.”
Then he kissed her.
And yes, yes he was.