Page 111 of Conrad

She looked up. And somehow heard her own voice.“I ate some apples and then opened a jar of pickles. Two days in, the door unlocked. It was Edward.”

She had been warm, and fed, and spared.

“It’s hard to see in the midst of the darkness, but when we need Him most, God doesn’t abandon us. But we often don’t look for Him. We keep our eyes on the darkness. God is the light that shines in the darkness, and not even evil can overcome it.”

Steps on the porch.Conrad.

“Out of the depths I have cried to You, for with the Lord there is lovingkindness and abundant salvation. Paraphrase mine, from Psalm 130.” Mama Em winked. “Don’t let circumstances dictate the quality of your life.”

Then she got up as Conrad came into the house.

It was like sunshine and heat pouring into the room, the way he walked, his gaze going right to Penelope’s. And though his mother moved away to the sink, she could still hear Mama Em’s words.

“That’s a hard way to live your life. Always fearing someone is going to betray you.”

Yes, it was.

But maybe not anymore.

“We need to get going,” he said. “I have practice.”

She slid off the stool. Walked over to Mama Em, who stood at the sink, her arms in the suds, and gave her a hug. “Thank you.”

“Make sure you take a muffin on your way out.”

Conrad held out her jacket, and she grabbed her gloves and hat.

“What was that about?” He hit his fob and unlocked his door.

She said nothing as she got into the truck. Then, “You can drop me at my house.”

He actually laughed. “Sweetheart, until we figure out who put a dead man in your potato bin, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

His gaze landed on hers.

And she couldn’t have walked away if she’d wanted to.

* * *

He didn’t know if Avery McMillan had done it on purpose or by accident, but either way, Steinbeck saw the entire thing in slow motion as he stood in the curtained bay inside the emergency room of the Hospital Clínic de Barcelona, watching doctors stitch up his bloodied boss.

Two seconds earlier and Stein would have been able to fully rescue Declan from traffic, keep the bicyclist from smashing into him.

As it was, he’d had a hold on Declan, managed to jerk him back, kept him from flying into the motorized traffic. The bicyclist had hit him, however, and managed to slice open Declan’s shin, send him flying into a light pole, which he bounced off, landing on the pavement with a wicked bonk to his head.

Which was why Stein had insisted on the CT, just to make sure Stone’s brains were intact.

Now they were stitching up his shin where the EMTs had taped on gauze pads, his blood saturating them as well as the ones packed on his damaged nose. He’d sport a couple raccoon eyes tomorrow, given the blood flow. In the tiled hallway, a few voices lifted, announcements made over the speakers, and the smells of antiseptic and bleach burned into Steinbeck’s nose.

Memories. He shook them away, but he didn’t know what was worse—the churn that always stirred in his gut over his own medical trauma so many years ago or . . . well, or his current epic fail.

He shouldn’t have let the woman get that close. But she’d seemed . . . well, he’d just kept remembering the woman he’d danced with, and her smile might have hypnotized him a little, stirring to life the memory of Phoenix, and he’d been off his game.

And nearly gotten his boss killed.

Maybe he should resign.

“Calm down, Steinbeck. I’m fine.”

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