Page 33 of Conrad

She set her fork down. Picked up her coffee. “I needed that information.”

He also set down his fork, picked up his coffee. “Why?”

“Because I think Sarah Livingston knew that my sister’s fiancé, Edward, was murdered.”

He didn’t flinch, just looked at her, steady on. “I’m listening.”

She set her coffee down. “Okay, so, Sarah was a real estate agent, and she did a lot of work with Walsh and Swindle’s management group. They owned a high-end condo along the river, downtown, and Edward lived in one of them. One night, it burned to the ground, with him in it.”

He cocked his head. “Like Beckett.”

“Just like Beckett. An explosion out of nowhere. But I got the official report. They said it was a gas leak ignited by a cigarette—or even a lit joint. Which is a complete lie because Edward didn’t smoke, didn’t do drugs. The man was a fitness junkie. He barely even used his stove. Smoothies galore.”

Conrad was nodding.

“They ruled it an accident, and S & W got the insurance money, and the case was closed.”

“What did Sarah have to do with it?”

“Edward had given his notice, had a house pending for him and Tia once they walked down the aisle. Sarah was handling the transaction. She’d also gotten him into the condo, so they were longtime friends.” She drew in a breath, met his eyes. A beat, then,why not?—

“What no one knows, even my audience, is that I met with Sarah before she was murdered. About a month before, in fact. I told her what I thought, and she said she’d do some digging, see if S & W had any information about the fire or how it might have happened. And at the time she was dating Holden Walsh, so . . .”

Her eyes started to burn, and she looked away.

“That’s why you picked up Sarah’s case. You went from a closed-case podcast to a cold case.”

She looked at Conrad. “You listen to my podcast?”

“While I cook.”

She smiled, his reference to her watching his game hitting home. “On Friday nights?”

“I live a boring life.”

“Sure you do. I’ve seen your Instagram.”

His mouth tightened and he looked down at his coffee.Oh, shoot—and now it all felt very awkward. She’d sort of forgotten, at least for a second, just what had brought them back together.

At least, on his end.

For her part . . .shoot.She looked down at her share. “I can’t eat all this.”

“It didn’t go down like it played out on social media,” he said then, softly. She looked up, frowned.

“I don’t need to know?—”

“I need to tell you.” He drew in a breath. “Torch had been seeing this girl—Jasmine. Mostly hookups. She was what we call an ice bunny?—”

“Girls who hang around the players.”

“Yes. He brought her to an after-game event at Sammy’s, a restaurant in St. Paul, and she got a little drunk—as did he. He got a cab home and left her there, so I offered to drive her. I was in the Charger, and muscle cars don’t do well on the ice. It was slick out, and I hit a patch of ice . . . Anyway, I got pulled over. It was weird—like the cop was following me. Maybe. Anyway, they pulled me out of the car, and she got out of the car too, and the cops made me do a sobriety test, and she was there, making a scene—it all got caught on video, got posted, and went viral. Torch was really hot when he saw it—but when she started showing up at games and then at my house, he realized she’d moved on. I had to take a restraining order out on her . . . But people accused me of . . . well?—”

“I can imagine.” She hated the way his eyes had darkened, the story quieting his voice, as if he carried shame. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I should have called her a cab.” He shook his head. “It was an impulsive decision. I’m working on that.” He offered a wry smile.

Wait—had this been an impulsive decision? “I’m not going to stalk you, Conrad.”

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