Page 90 of Conrad

Her window shattered. She screamed and floored it.

She jerked back so fast that it threw her forward against the steering wheel, but she hung on, then turned the car. It screeched.

“Penelope!”

She jerked at the voice, turned, and saw the man standing in the shadows.

Holden Walsh?

This man wore all black, including his stocking cap, and she couldn’t make him out in the darkness.

But she wasn’t sticking around. Not when he held a tire iron in his hand. So—she jammed the gear into drive and again mashed the gas.

She skidded out of the lot onto Glenwood, her heart hard in her chest, her breaths hot, and kept the accelerator to the mat.

C’mon, police, pick me up!

But no cops as she followed Theodore Wirth Parkway, turned south, and didn’t slow. No headlights in her rearview mirror either.

She crossed under 394, and her brain clicked in as the road changed to Cedar Lake Parkway. Her heart was leading the way to Conrad’s house. The dark, mid-century-modern million-dollar home with security, and the man inside who could wrap his muscled, hockey arms around her, help her breathe again, and maybe . . . after a while . . . sort this out.

Pulling into his driveway, she turned off her car, her face frozen, aware now that glass littered her lap, her jacket, her hat.

Her body shook as she climbed out.

Light burned in the small windows along the front edge of the house, and around the back that faced the lake, more glow.

He was home. Maybe he’d gotten her text.

Her knees nearly buckled as she walked up the steps to his elevated front door. She pushed the bell, heard it ring deep and long in the house.

She stood, brushed off her jacket, and glass shuttered off her.

Nothing.

She pressed the bell again. Waited.

He was home, right?

The door opened. Conrad stood in the entry, changed into faded jeans, a flannel shirt, wool socks, looking very northland Viking with a little lumberjack thrown in.

She couldn’t stop herself. She barreled inside and clung to him, her arms clasped around him. “Oh good, you’re here. You’re here.”

He didn’t return the gesture. His body seemed to shudder, then stiffen.

She let him go. Stepped back. “You okay?”

“Fine.” He wore a frown, his face dark, his jaw tight.

What?She glanced outside. “Can you shut the door?”

His mouth tightened. He shut it.

What was wrong with him? Maybe, “I’m sorry I left the game.”

He shrugged. “No big deal.”

No big. deal?

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