Page 133 of Conrad

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.

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