Page 108 of Conrad

“The very one. His oldest brother, Reuben, fought with his other brothers when they sold Joseph into slavery. And you know, it burned inside him for years, because twenty years later, when they went to Egypt to buy grain and Joseph tested their hearts by threatening to throw them into prison, Reuben offered himself as tribute. He still carried that guilt.”

“And rightly so. They sold him into slavery.”

“And that is what guilt does. Sells us into slavery. Only mercy, only forgiveness, sets us free.”

Conrad was repentant. But maybe Joe Johnson didn’t know that. Not really.

“Listen. You can’t fix the past. Only God can do that. Consider Peter on the shore after he betrayed Jesus. He couldn’t look at him. But Jesus forgave him, restored him. And this mercy impacted the entire church for the rest of time.” Grover slapped Conrad’s shoulder, turned away. “You don’t need to unravel everything—you just need to put your reputation and your actions into God’s hands and follow his voice. Learn, yes, but don’t keep looking behind. Let mercy abound.”

“Sometimes mercy just feels too big in the face of the fallout.”

“That’s exactly the point. Because to paraphrase my favorite Jack Nicholson line—‘We can’t handle the truth.’ Now, can I get you to take this thermos in and get me more coffee?”

Conrad grinned. “Sure.” He took the thermos. “Thanks, Dad.”

“I expect a couple tickets at will call next time in I’m in town.” He picked up the sander.

Conrad headed outside, back up the trail. Frowned when he spotted Penelope on the porch, coat on, pacing, talking on the phone.

He looked at her, but she was turned slightly away, her jaw tight.

Huh.

He stepped inside and walked over to the coffeepot. His mother had vanished. He filled his dad’s thermos, then wrapped a leftover bran muffin in a napkin and was about to head back outside when Penny pushed open the door.

She wore darkness in her expression, a sort of panicked, horrified set to her jaw.

“What?” He set the thermos back on the counter.

“That was the arson investigator.” She set the phone on the counter. Pressed her hand over it. “They found a body in my garage.”

It took a second. Then, “Yourburntgarage?”

“That’s the one. The body was in a bag in my old potato bin. He wanted to ask me some questions to add to my statement.”

“Who was the victim?”

She closed her eyes, almost pained, and then took a deep breath. “They just identified him as Holden Walsh.”

And he simply followed the impulse to walk over, wrap his arms around her, and hold her tight.

* * *

Maybe she should just walk away.

The thought washed through her, turned Penelope to stone as Conrad held her. Even her breaths had stopped, caught inside her.

“Did the investigator say anything about how they found him or what the medical examiner said?” He let her go, leaned away, so much emotion in his blue eyes it sort of melted through her, into her bones, put a dent in the terrible chill inside.

“No. He just said they found him in a bag in my bin. It’s an old garage, and I used the bin for firewood, except after the remodel, I installed a gas fireplace, so I haven’t used it for . . . well, since last year.”

“So he could have been in there?—”

“Since he left—ordidn’tleave—for Barbados. He was frozen through, so he might have been there for a while.”

His mouth made a grim line.

She nodded, backed away, her arms around herself. “I don’t know, but I was sort of thinking that Walsh might have killed Swindle . . .” She frowned, “But of course, why?”

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