Page 88 of Conrad

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Pen. What is going on?”

“I don’t know. But I’m about to find out. I’m sitting at Theodore Wirth Park, waiting for Holden Walsh.”

Silence.

Then, “With Conrad, right?”

“No, I had to leave during the game?—”

“Are you out of your everlovin’ mind? What—okay.” And now the voice on the other end turned muffled. “We’re on our way.”

“What? No. Harp. I’m fine.” Except, yes, here she was, sitting in an abandoned, snowy parking lot too late at night, waiting for Sarah’s ex-boyfriend and the one man linking them all together—Edward, Beckett, Kyle, and Sarah—to show up.

Headlights scraped by on the road behind her, then disappeared into the night.

Maybe this wasn’t just a bad idea but an epically bad idea.

“You’re right—okay, I’m outta here.”

“Good. Call me when you get home.”

Yes, she should have waited for Conrad. She picked up her phone, and on the off chance that he might have already gotten a new one, she texted him.

Penelope

Sorry I had to leave. Got a lead on Walsh. I’ll fill you in after you get back.

She thought for a moment and then added?—

Penelope

XO

Okay, yes, that felt right too.

Because maybe, possibly, she could fall hard for Conrad Kingston.

She was putting her car into drive when more lights flashed in her rearview mirror.

Walsh. Finally.

Keeping her car running, she got out, letting the dome light bathe her, and lifted her arm. She’d only met Walsh once, although she’d recognize him anywhere, given the images on her crime wall. But maybe he wouldn’t know her.

The car—a late-model Ford Escape—stopped thirty feet away, and she closed her door, shoved her hands into her pockets, started to walk toward it.

The trees surrounding the lot creaked in the wind, and she ducked her chin into her jacket. Why couldn’t he have asked to meet at a coffee shop? Or acookieshop?—

The Escape revved its engine and she paused . . .

It lurched forward, skidding a little on the ice, gathering speed?—

What?She stilled, then turned and took off, running hard for the edge of the parking lot, her feet sliding on patches of ice.

The engine roared behind her, but her feet found pavement and she launched forward, propelling herself into a snowbank. She scampered up, then rolled over the edge, down the backside, found her knees . . .

And kept running.

The Escape plowed into the snowbank in an explosion of ice and grime and dirt. Lodged there, the engine burning.

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