Page 126 of Conrad

Cheers, and he couldn’t help but scan the crowd for a certain brunette.

Then his father pulled him away, off the steps, toward the parking lot, where he took Conrad’s keys and got into his truck. They backed out, the press still chasing Conrad.

“Your mom is making pancakes.”

“Breakfast of champions.”

“Yep.” Grover looked at Conrad, winked. And somehow the drive home felt like redemption.

Conrad’s mother met him with buttermilk pancakes, homemade maple syrup, fresh-squeezed orange juice, scrambled eggs with cream and gouda, and hickory-smoked bacon, and they ate in the big room because they’d been guest-free last night.

Mom gave him an update on Doyle and Austen, and Stein had left on Saturday with Declan Stone heading somewhere overseas, and then he pushed away from the table and carried his plate into the kitchen.

“I really loved getting to know Penelope better,” his mother said, loading his plate into the dishwasher. “I just wish you two were really together, and not just . . .you know.”

“Just . . . what?” He arched an eyebrow. Reached for his phone.

“That you two were just together for charity purposes?”

“Where did you read that?”

“Oh, on your Instagram account.”

Hisaccount? He opened the app. Read his statement.Aw . . . Felicity.

“Don’t believe everything you read on the internet.” He kissed her cheek, then stepped away and dialed Penelope.

Outside, the sun shone on the cleared broomball rink, and he glanced at the thermometer. Above freezing, but just barely.

“Better watch the ice, Mom. There are snowmobile tracks on the ice, but the snowpack can warm it up and turn it weak. And the wind has piled some ice flow on the shoreline, which says that the currents are rising to the surface.”

Ringing.

“And the sun is getting hotter, so it could be melting the ice where we cleared it. C’mon, Penny, answer!”

Voicemail. He hung up.

Shoot.

No texts either, and it occurred to him then that maybe she didn’t have his new phone number. Had he given it to her after she’d shown up at his house?

Jack barreled into the room. “Con, we have a problem.”

Of course they did. “What?”

“I just got off with Harper—Penelope sent her a text. She forwarded it to me.” He held out the phone.

Penelope

Franco killed Edward. Probably SL. He knows I know.

Conrad just stared at it. “SL? Sarah Livingston. And Edward.”

“Who’s Franco?”

“Oh, I know Franco. He’s her supposed bodyguard, but he’s hardly been around.” He thumbed down past Harper’s many unanswered responses. “She’s in trouble.”

Jack nodded.

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