Page 23 of Conrad

He turned and headed out to the parking lot. Dropped his duffel in the trunk, then got in the Charger and dropped the package on the passenger seat. Picked up his phone, where he’d left it charging during the game, no distractions.

Thumbed open his text messages, just in case. Of course, nothing. Not that he expected anything, but . . .

Aw, shoot.He’d hoped, maybe. A little.

Clearly, Penelope Pepper had meant what she’d said.

Jace was right. He needed a brain transplant. One that didn’t include Penelope Pepper and her murder mystery.

It might help if said brain could erase the past, too, thank you. He’d give his Ducati Panigale V4 for a decent night’s sleep.

While he waited for his car to warm up, he glanced at the package on the passenger seat. Picked it up and pulled out the jersey.

Icy blue and silver with a hawk on the chest, wings wide, talons out.

He groaned.No, no—how had he not put together Jace’s words with Simon’s team?

Conrad sighed, leaned his head back.

So much for escaping his nightmares.

* * *

Her opening music—a seductive saxophone melody—faded out, and Penelope leaned into her Shure SM7B microphone, her voice smooth, even, and perfect for her late-night audience. Or whenever her listeners wanted to download her podcast.

“Hello, puzzlers! You’re tuned in toPenny for Your Thoughts,the podcast where no clue is too small and no theory too wild. I’m your host, Penelope Pepper, diving deep into the twists and turns of the Case of Sarah Livingston.”

She sat in her basement office, remodeled after she’d bought the 1927 home on Wood Lane in Minneapolis, a tiny dead-end street that backed up to Minnehaha Creek. A Tudor with sweeping rooflines and a slant-ceiling second-floor attic, she’d gutted the place and redone it to give it the vintage-modern vibe that felt like home.

Unlike the Pepper palace on the lake.

The basement office was her haven. Wood flooring with a plush lamb’s-wool rug, an antique oak desk that sat in the middle of the room, whitewash over the original brick walls, and Tiffany lighting. Behind her, a shelf stocked with vintage Agatha Christie mysteries, and a teal-painted wooden cabinet that held her research. Above that, on the wall, an old map of Minneapolis–St. Paul held pushpins that indicated places in her investigation.

For inspiration, on the other walls hung movie posters—Rear WindowandNorth by Northwest.But her favorite spot was her grandmother’s blue velvet Queen Anne chair, worn yet decadently comfortable, seated in the corner with books piled on the floor nearby.

On her desk, two monitors captured her notes for today’s monologue.

“Sarah, a vibrant real estate agent, was murdered in her own home under circumstances that grow stranger by the day. No forced entry, and witnesses saw a masked man running from her townhome late at night. Her ex-boyfriend, Holden Walsh, alibied out, which left the police with no motive, no leads, and a cold trail. And thePenny for Your Thoughtslisteners on the hunt. Since our last episode, the plot has thickened, and today I’ve got some critical updates and theories that might just blow the roof off this case.”

A glance at the starburst clock on the wall suggested she needed to get moving. The publicist for EmPowerPlay expected her out at the rink in two hours. She pitched her voice low, adding a bit of play to it.

“First off, remember Kyle Brunley? Sarah’s best friend, suspected of the murder by some because of his rumored jealousy over Sarah’s ex-boyfriend Walsh? Tragically, Kyle was found dead, his car crashed in a ditch.” She leaned into the mic, changed her voice again. “Accident . . . or silenced forever?”

She pushed a button, and a sound effect of a gasp emitted into the recording.

“And then there’s Tommy, Sarah’s neighbor, recently out of surgery after being shot in what was described as a ‘freak accident.’ But, folks, how many freak accidents can one case have, hmm?”

Glancing at her notes, she continued. “Adding more mystery, we learned that before her death, Sarah’s home was burglarized. Her computer was stolen—why? What was on that computer? Was it connected to the fire at the Stone Arch Condos, leading to the death of one man?”

She hadn’t yet announced who that man was—and maybe, given the conversation with Tia . . .

No.Edward’s deathhadto have been a murder. She felt it in her gut.

“These weren’t just any condos, folks—they were owned by none other than Walsh and his elusive partner, Derek Swindle. Did Walsh share something dangerous with Sarah before their breakup? And where in the world is Walsh now? He’s missing, and as each day passes, the questions pile up like clues in a detective’s docket.”

She pushed another button, and a telephone rang. “Let’s see what you have to say. I want to hear your theories, no matter how out there they might seem. Let’s go—a penny for your thoughts.”

The calls came in, recorded on her site earlier in the week, and she posted the most juicy. The first call came on the line. Eager. “Hi, Penny, longtime listener here! I’ve got a theory—what if Walsh and Swindle are in witness protection because they stumbled onto a real estate laundering ring? Maybe Sarah found out and . . . well, you know.”

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