Page 131 of Conrad

Her voice cut to a whisper. “Did Edward know?”

“Probably not. He thought he’d saved you. What an idiot.” He slowed, the house appearing.

She gaped.

He glanced back. “What did you think we’d have—a cabin? It’s not the Pepper palace, but my father restored every inch of the eight thousand square feet.”

The colonial revival home sat back from the lake, sprawled along the shoreline, with a columned portico over the front door, and rose three stories, with dormer windows jutting from the roofline. Vines twined up the outside, like an old English estate, and a dry fountain centered the circular driveway.

“It was an old summer estate of some financier. Inga found it in a magazine, and my dad bought it for her. It has a ballroom on the second floor.”

“Inga? Why did she keep working for my family, then?”

“Guilt, maybe. And if she quit, they’d ask questions . . .”

“And that would lead back to the money she’d stolen.”

“Earned.”

“By kidnapping me.”

“You were fine. And Edward turned out to be a hero, so calm down.”

Calm.down?

“Your father kidnapped me. Stole my sense of safety, made me believe that everyone was out to get me, to use me.”

He put the car in Park. “It made you smarter, made you stop living in a fantasy. My dad did you a favor.”

She had nothing for that.

He reached for the door handle, turned. “But you do know that if you hadn’t gone poking around Edward’s death, none of this would have happened. Sarah wouldn’t have gone to Holden and started the mess.” He met her eyes in the rearview mirror. “This is all on you.”

“You, Penelope Pepper, are the connection.”

She froze, even as he got out.

But not so much that she didn’t realize he’d unlocked her door. And yes, maybe she was smarter—or at least braver. She opened it, barreled out the other side.

And ran for the house.

“Penelope!”

She ignored his shout, scrambled toward the front door.

Locked. She turned.

He slammed up behind her, trapped her against the door, his face close. “This is fun.”

She kneed him, and he doubled over, shot out a word. Then she slammed the palm of her hand into his face, and his head jerked back.

He stumbled, and she pushed away.

Took off. This time along the length of the house, toward a sunroom-slash-greenhouse. If this house was anything like her father’s, the sunroom door would be rusty, vulnerable.

“Penelope! You?—”

She ignored his word, hit the sunroom door. Again, locked.

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