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“The server says he didn’t, and his meal was untouched when she cleared the table. I was near the host stand when the other man left, and he was alone.”

The account makes it less likely that Andrei followed Connor from the restaurant. It doesn’t prove he had nothing to do with his disappearance, but the line connecting him to Connor no longer looks as direct as it did an hour ago.

“Did anyone see whether Connor got into his car?” Birdie asks. “Or whether another person was waiting outside?”

“I asked the host who worked that night, but she only remembers your brother leaving through the front entrance. Our windows face the sidewalk, and the staff had no reason to watch where he went.”

“What about security cameras?” I ask. “Even one facing the sidewalk might show whether he met anyone.”

“I’m sorry, but our system records over the footage every twenty-four hours. Tuesday’s recording was gone before we knew anyone needed it.”

If I had answered Connor’s call, none of this might be necessary.

“Cassie,” Birdie says, reading my thoughts with irritating accuracy. She closes her fingers around my wrist. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

I look at her without asking what she means because I already know.

Marisol clears her throat through the phone. “I’ll speak with the rest of the staff and call you if anyone remembers more. Would that help?”

“Yes, thank you.” I give her my number and ask her to contact me even if a detail seems unimportant.

Birdie lowers herself onto the sofa arm. “Andrei didn’t leave with him.”

“That doesn’t tell us what they discussed or who called Connor.” I place my phone beside his unopened mail. “It also doesn’t tell us what happened during the eleven minutes before Andrei paid.”

“You still think he’s involved.”

“I think he knows why Connor wanted to meet him.” I pick up the cream invitation. “I’m not declaring him guilty, but I’m not making him innocent because he has expensive suits and cheekbones capable of opening envelopes.”

Birdie’s eyebrows rise. “You searched for pictures?”

“Research,” I insist, refusing to examine why one photograph led to six others. “Now we need to confirm we can use this invitation.”

The invitation rests between us on Connor’s dining table, its dark gold lettering more elegant than anything associated with our plan. Birdie reads the RSVP instructions, then reaches for her phone.

“Why am I calling?” she asks.

“Because you lie better than I do.”

“Connor is unavailable, and we have his invitation. Both statements are true.” Birdie turns on the speaker. “It’s fortunate we’re calling a vineyard rather than testifying in court.”

Murphy jumps onto the empty chair between us, circles twice, and lowers himself with his back to the phone. Apparently, he has no interest in luxury wine unless someone offers tuna pairings.

A woman answers in a warm, polished voice. “Dragorin Vineyards, this is Tessa Morales. How may I help you?”

Birdie straightens as though Tessa can see her. “Hi, I’m calling about the private tasting Saturday evening. Connor Brewster can’t attend, so he gave us his invitation. It says it admits two guests, but we wanted to make sure transfers are allowed.”

I watch Birdie’s face for any sign the question has raised suspicion. She watches me in return, which is less useful.

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Tessa says. Keyboard keys sound in the background. “The invitation came through one of our corporate partners, and the attending names were never confirmed. May I have your name?”

“Birdie Lawson.”

Tessa spells it back, then asks, “And the name of your guest?”

Birdie tugs on her braid. “Cassie Brewster.”

“Cassie Brewster,” Tessa repeats while more keys click.