Page 73 of Conrad

“Best voluntold gig I’ve ever been assigned to.” He winked.

She frowned but picked up a saltine and a spoon. “What do I do with this?”

“Dip it in the peanut butter.”

She opened the jar. “By the way, I sort of like it when you call me Penny.” The spoon came out with a gob of peanut butter. “Edward called me Penny. It made me feel normal.” She passed him the jar and he dug in.

“You didn’t feel normal?”

“Would you, growing up in that house? And after the kidnapping, I had protection all the time. Dad still has a guy who is assigned to keep an eye on me. His name is Franco. He doesn’t follow me around anymore, but I have a panic button on my phone. It goes off, he appears, like Superman.”

“Too bad he didn’t follow you to the hockey game.” He spread his peanut butter onto a saltine. “But yes, I get it. I wouldn’t have felt normal either.”

He paused. “So, I get needing to find justice for Edward, but if everyone else thought Edward died in the fire, why did you believe he was murdered?”

Her eyes widened. “I . . .” She looked away.

“You don’t have to tell me?—”

“It just didn’t feel right. He wasn’t reckless. And he wasn’t a drinker—didn’t do drugs. I just couldn’t wrap my brain around it. And I thought, if I could find his murderer, then maybe it would all make sense.”

“What would make sense?”

She sighed then. “Why he picked Tia.” She looked back at him. “I mean—I get that part. Tia is . . . she’s perfect. Smart and beautiful. But Edward and I . . .”

“You were in love with him.” The statement issued out, took a piece of him with it.

“Of course I was. He saved my life. But he was four years older than me, so I get that he never thought of me that way . . .” She drew up her knees, wrapped her arms around them, looked so forlorn that he nearly reached out.

Nearly.

“And my sister is always so put together. She’s not a mess like me. She’s easy to love.”

A mess?

“I guess I just thought maybe if I could understand what would make someone want to murder him, then maybe he wasn’t as perfect as I thought he was. And if he wasn’t perfect, then maybe it wasn’t me.”

She looked away.

And he didn’t get it. “What wasn’t you?”

She turned, met his eyes. “If he wasn’t perfect, then maybe I could understand why he didn’t pick me. Why he didn’t love me. Because all I can come up with is that there was something wrong with me.”

Oh, Pen.

“Maybe I was too much of a mess.”

She said it again and . . . “No?—”

“I mean, it makes sense, right? My dad doesn’t pay the ransom, Edward doesn’t pick me . . . Whatever. Clearly I’m”—she lifted a shoulder—“unlovable.”

“That’s—are you serious?”

She’d made a sandwich out of her saltines, took a bite. “Oh, my mouth is glue. I need water.”

He still had the bottle he’d taken from the car and handed it to her. Held on to the bottle as she took it. “Penelope, look at me.”

She shook her head.

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