Page 4 of Conrad

He threw the shirt in a hamper, jumped in the shower, and felt recovered by the time he emerged, donned a towel, and leaned over the sink for a beard trim. His cell buzzed from the bedroom, and he recognized Jack’s assigned ringtone—“Go Your Own Way,” Fleetwood Mac.

Although, recently Jack had decided to put down roots at the family homestead some sixty miles west, at least until he sorted out his relationship with reporter Harper Malone. So maybe Conrad needed to change up songs.

Maybe “Home,” by Daughtry.

Video call. He thumbed it open. “’Sup, bro?” He turned his video off, left the call on speaker.

Jack sat in the kitchen of the Norbert, one of the heritage homes their parents rented out on the King’s Inn property. Jack’s dark hair lived below his ears and had its own mind, just like Jack. He wore a flannel shirt and a dark grizzle of beard, the perfect look for a handyman, despite his real job as a finder of all things lost.

His most recent finds had been himself, forgiveness, and a second chance with the girl next door he’d never forgotten. And a job, taking over for little bro Doyle, who took care of the grounds and lived in the Norbert. For now.

Apparently, Doyle had decided it was time to escape his grief and the broken dreams of the past and start new. He hadn’t yet left for the Caribbean, but their mother was planning a sendoff party next weekend.

About time, really.

“So, just a heads-up,” Jack said in greeting. “Penelope is going to be at tonight’s gig.”

Conrad had been filing through his suits—not the Armani, of course, but maybe the charcoal cashmere-wool Canali Kei. He pulled out the jacket. Slim fit.

He’d put on some muscle since he’d purchased this a couple years ago.

“I figured, since it’s her family’s gig.” He put the suit back, pulled out the HUGO BOSS. “The Pepper Foundation started EmPowerPlay, and they’re sponsoring the event.”

“You two ever connect?”

Again wool, slim fit. And boring. He put the suit coat back. “No. I texted her after I got back from Nashville. She never answered.”

“Probably because she’s still working on her murder podcast.”

He pulled out the TOM FORD windowpane. He’d worn it for the Blue Ox Man of the Year awards ceremony last year. Understated. Elegant.

“Her only lead in the Sarah Livingston case—Kyle Brunley—was killed the night he posted bail,” Jack said.

Conrad stilled, his hand on the midnight-blue velvet-and-silk Brioni smoking jacket. “Wait. Kyle Brunley is dead? The guy who tried to kidnap her and Harper?”

Penelope had vanished from his sister’s wedding event last month in a move many pegged as a PR gimmick for her show.Nope.Conrad might never forget her worn but tough-edged expression when she’d been found . . . having escaped on her own and hidden out.

“Yep. He was arraigned, posted bail, and the next day, vanished. They found him in his car about a week ago in a ditch off Marsh Lake Road. Harper told me about it last night at dinner.”

Conrad carried the smoking jacket out to the bedroom. “That’s the third person murdered in the Sarah Livingston case.”

“If you don’t include Sarah.”

“Right.”

“Harper’s worried about Penelope. Penelope hasn’t answered her texts either, so . . . track her down, and find out how she’s doing.”

Conrad found a light-blue shirt, matching trousers. “My bet is that she’s just fine. She’s smart, resourceful, and tough. After all, she did survive three days in a freezing icehouse?—”

“Forratings.”

Well, not quite, but Conrad could see why Jack, who’d found her, might think that.

“Which makes a guy wonder just what else she’d do for her story,” Jack continued.

Conrad put on a T-shirt, then the dress shirt. “I’m not sure what I can do. She’s got her own mind.”

“Just . . . I don’t know. Harper asked me to call you. She seems to think that Penelope likes you.”

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