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Connor strains against the chair. “Leave her out of this.”

The camera pulls back. An arm enters the frame, and a fist strikes Connor across the mouth. His head jerks to the side. When he turns back, his lip is split, and blood runs down his chin. I gasp and cover my mouth, tears stinging my eyes as he tries to straighten in the chair.

“If you show Dragorin this video, tell his security chief, or go to the police, your brother dies,” the voice continues. “Rick can no longer negotiate for us. You will deal with me.”

“Who are you?” I ask the phone, though the recording has already ended.

I call the number. The screen displays a failure message before it rings. I try again with the same result. My hands shake so badly I nearly drop the phone.

Connor is alive. For now.

I need to tell Andrei. He could send the video to Drew, find details I can’t see, and have people searching within minutes. I turn toward the door, then stop with my fingers on the handle.

Connor’s head jerking sideways comes back to me, followed by the blood on his chin. Whoever holds him knew about yesterday’s fire and has reached my phone today. I can’t dismiss the threat to hurt him again. They chose this moment while Andrei was away from the house. If they can know that much, I can’t assume they’re bluffing about what they will know if I tell him.

I replay the video.

The first time, I watch Connor’s face. The second, I hold the phone close and listen behind the voices. A low mechanical hum, and once, a hollow metallic clang. It could come from a garage, a workshop, or a dozen buildings I’ve never seen. I zoom in on the image around the high window. A strip of daylight touches the wall beneath it.

At the edge of the frame, behind Connor’s chair, a narrow band of blue crosses the floor. Paint, perhaps, or tape marking a work area. I pause and enlarge it until the picture breaks into squares. I cannot tell what it is, let alone where to look for it.

The office door is open. Andrei’s house is full of people who would help me if I called out, and I have never felt so alone.

I replay the part where Connor speaks of the fire. He takes a breath before the word stable, as though he is choosing what the camera will capture. His eyes move once toward the window. Is he trying to show me the direction of the light, or am I asking an exhausted man to solve his own imprisonment while tied to a chair?

Birdie calls again. Her name flashes across Connor’s frozen face.

I answer and force air into my lungs. “I’m sorry. I got distracted.”

“You sound strange,” she replies. “Did Andrei get news?”

“No.” I turn away from the windows. “Give me a minute.” I hear Sofia speaking to Murphy behind her. The ordinary sound hurts. “I want to wash my face first.”

Birdie pauses. “Cass, is that all?”

“Yes.” The lie scrapes against my throat. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay,” she replies, though she doesn’t sound convinced. “I’m here.”

I end the call before she can hear my breathing change. Birdie has stood beside me through every part of Connor’s disappearance. I want to run downstairs and put the phone in her hand. Instead, I stare at my reflection in the dark screen, trying to become a woman who can walk into the kitchen without giving herself away.

Another message arrives.

It’s a photograph of me standing at Andrei’s office window a minute ago. My hand is lifted toward the glass, and the sleeve over my bandaged arm is visible. The picture was taken from beyond the house, angled upward through the pane. Whoever sent it could see me well enough to know I was holding my phone.

I step away from the window.

Outside, harvest workers carry bins between rows. A utility cart moves along the path toward the winery. One guard stands near the drive, while another crosses behind the garden wall. Anyone farther up the slope could have taken the photograph without standing in plain sight. I search the trees and the buildings until my eyes begin to ache.

I shut the office door halfway, then realize the movement might be visible to the person watching. My phone feels exposed in my hand. I put it in my pocket, take it out to make certain Connor’s video is still there, and put it away again.

Footsteps sound in the hall.

I turn as Sofia enters with a tray. A fresh mug of coffee sits beside two slices of toast, cut into smaller pieces. She stops when she sees me standing well away from the desk and the windows.

“Birdie told me you were still here,” she explains. “You left most of breakfast on the plate.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”