Page 105 of Conrad

And he took her with him.

They tumbled into the bike lane, with the morning commuters pedaling hard.

Screams, and she looked up just in time to spot two bicyclists braking hard. She threw up her arms, turned away?—

The bicycle hit her with the force of a truck, launching her into the air, the pavement coming back at her fast—too fast.

She put out her hand to brace her fall, felt the crack radiate up her arm.

Then she rolled onto the pavement. Squealing brakes. Screaming.

Everything went dark.

ELEVEN

He just neededa moment of fresh air.

Conrad sat at the kitchen island, holding his cell phone, staring at Weston Winter’s video image as he explained attorney-client privilege and the pro hac vice admission law that let West practice in Minnesota, should things go south. And yes, Conrad had anonymously called 911.

“You definitely need to make yourself available for the police to question you, but let me negotiate an immunity from your B & E before you jump in.”

Jack sat at a stool, arms folded, wearing a King’s Inn hat backward on his head, a sweatshirt covered in woodchips from this morning’s refilling of the firewood to the fireplaces in the King’s Inn houses. He’d been the one to suggest Conrad call his lawyer.

Penny also sat at the island, listening, drinking a cup of coffee, picking apart a muffin Conrad’s mother had offered her when they’d arrived an hour ago.

Conrad had lost his appetite, his stomach still roiling.

“I’ll be in touch,” Weston said. “Jack was right to tell you to call me. Just sit tight and let me figure this out.”

“Thanks, bro.” Conrad hung up. Set his phone down. Looked at Jack, who had escaped to the coffee station on the far side of the kitchen.

“It wouldn’t be the first dead-body discovery he’s handled,” he said as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

“I still think you need to call the police, Conrad.”

Conrad spotted his mother backing into the kitchen, carrying a tray of dirty breakfast dishes used by the guests sitting in the dining room of the inn. She wore her blonde hair short, pulled back in a handkerchief, and a full-body apron with the wordsThe King’s Innacross the front.

She set the tray on the stainless-steel counter next to the dishwasher. “It’s always the right time to do the right thing.”

“Of course,” Jack said. “But it’s more complicated than that.” He headed toward the door, back to his job as King’s Inn’s handyman. “Con’s a public figure. He’s got his image on the team to sort, as well as . . .” He glanced at Conrad. “Well, the last thing he wants is for the press to go hunting into his past.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, ‘that past’”—she finger quoted the words—“happened when he was seventeen years old. It’s buried.”

“Not deep enough,” Conrad said. He glanced at Penny, who was reading her phone. She was probably okay.

And he needed air.

Jack had left, and now Conrad grabbed his coat from the hook by the door and stepped outside onto the apron porch that wrapped the old Victorian. Snow lay crisp and bright on the yard under an uncluttered blue sky, creamy-white snow stretching from the shoreline, marred only by the rectangular ice rink the family had carved out weeks ago for a late-night broomball game.

Guests probably used it also, as his mother kept a supply of used skates.

Conrad spotted Jack driving away on the four-wheeler they used to go between houses. Conrad pulled on a hat, his gloves, ducked his head against the sweep of wind, and stepped off the porch onto a worn path that led from the house to the garage, a newer building that housed the inn’s summer furniture, lawn equipment, and snowplow.

And, more importantly, his grandfather’s old daysailer, the one Conrad had been restoring for the better part of a decade.

The scent of woodchips and oil stirred as he walked inside. The garage held his father’s woodshop, along with storage, and in the center of the room, the Catalina sixteen-footer, turned over on sawhorses, its hull up, the centerboard removed.

His fault. The last time he’d taken out the boat, he’d hit a rock, torn the centerboard in half. He and his father had pulled the boat from the water, and he’d decided to overhaul it, bow to stern.

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