Page 31 of Conrad

They headed down Wooddale, and the knot in his gut tightened. He’d been in one house fire—or rather, garage fire—as a child. Terrifying.

Red lights flashed against frozen pavement and snowy banks as they turned onto Golf Terrace Road. Smoke billowed from the back of the house, flames crashing through the main-story windows of a once-gorgeous Tudor with tall angled rooftops and a brick facade. Three fire trucks sprayed the home, turning the air soggy. Snow melted around the house.

Penelope stopped a short distance from where police cars cordoned off the area.

A few onlookers dressed in jackets and hats stood watching the peril.

Conrad pulled up too. Shut off his car. Got out. Penelope had gotten out and ventured closer, wrapping her arms around herself as she watched the firefighters.

“What happened?” Conrad addressed his question to a bystander, a middle-aged man in a parka and slippers, hands shoved into his pockets.

“I don’t know—the house just exploded about twenty minutes ago. Must have been the heater. It’s an old house.”

Right.

He walked up to Penelope, stood behind her. “That’s Beckett’s house, right?”

“Yeah,” she said quietly.

And then, just to confuse him even more, she turned, put her arms around his waist, and hung on.

* * *

Let go.

Let the poor man go.

The thought pulsed inside Penelope, in her head, even her chest, but it just couldn’t make it out to her arms.

Which were viced around Conrad like he might again be an anchor.

A buoy in the sudden tsunami of despair.

Okay, that felt overly dramatic, but not a bad line—she might use that in an upcoming podcast. Still?—

His big hands held her arms and finally went around her, probably as he was thinking through the fact that this was not in hiscontract.

Whatever.

But as if to confirm her thought, he loosened his hold, then took her arms and moved her away from him.

Right.His gaze was on the house, so she turned and spotted firefighters emerging from the blazing structure.

Between them, they carried a bagged body, heavy, and to her guess, one Anton Beckett.

“Oh no. Beckett was home,” said the man near her, wearing a parka and slippers. He’d come up next to them near the police barricade. “Poor man—I saw lights on just before the house blew up.”

The cold night slid into her soul.

And then, probably because he was still a nice guy, Conrad put a hand on her shoulder, squeezed. Heat poured through her at the gesture, but she didn’t move.

The firefighters put the body into an ambulance, which pulled away into the night.

Her last lead had just been cindered. Another man killed. To her knowledge, Beckett didn’t have a wife or kids, but hedidhave a life.

Or had.

Her throat thickened.

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