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“That was abrupt,” Birdie says, bracing one hand against the dashboard. “Do we need gas?”

“Murphy needs a break, and I need coffee.” I pull into a crowded service station and park beneath bright cameras. No dark SUV appears on the access road.

I should tell her, but she would call the police and guard Murphy with a tire iron. Until I have more than a dark vehicle traveling north, I can’t give her that fear, too.

We remain in the crowded lot for fifteen minutes before returning to the interstate. I search every mirror, but the SUV doesn’t reappear.

Darkness arrives before Aldermere. The lake becomes a black stretch beyond the trees, and familiar storefronts glow beneath the lamps along Main Street.

Relief washes over me when The Book Corner appears, its green awning dark above the broad front windows. The building has never looked more like home.

Murphy’s outrage returns when Birdie carries his crate inside, but it ends when the door opens. He pushes past her hands onto the hardwood and sits to wash one paw, making his recovery from trauma both complete and insulting.

“You screamed for an hour,” I remind him as I lock the door. “At least pretend to appreciate us.”

Murphy continues washing.

Birdie drops our bags near the stairs. “He’ll express his gratitude by waking you at four.”

“I look forward to it.” I turn on the lamps, and light spreads across the cedar shelves, old floorboards, and reading chairs waiting where we left them. “Go home and sleep. We’ll deal with dresses in the morning.”

Birdie hesitates. “Are you sure you want to stay alone?”

I think of the SUV, tinted windows, matching speed, and a front plate hidden by rain. “Murphy is here, and the locks are good. I’ll call if anything happens.”

She studies my face. I force myself to hold her gaze until she nods.

After Birdie leaves, I feed Murphy, who behaves as though food hasn’t passed his lips since yesterday. Sleep belongs to people who aren’t trying to locate missing brothers and suspicious billionaires.

I make tea and spread Connor’s planner, the photographs I printed out from my phone, and the vineyard invitation across the kitchen table. Rain begins tapping the windows as I work through each page again, matching dates to the notes stored on my phone. VHL appears beside four loan numbers. D. Morozov appears once beside an address Connor underlined.

Murphy jumps into the chair beside me and watches with half-closed eyes. “If you understand commercial lending, now would be a useful time to reveal it.”

He yawns.

“I agree. Numbers are rude.”

I turn back three pages, then forward two. Near Saturday’s date, Connor has written a line along the bottom margin, where his thumb covered it when I examined the planner in Seattle. The words are smaller than his other entries and pressed hard enough to leave marks on the next page.

DRAGORIN, SATURDAY, ASK ABOUT VENDOR LIST.

I read it twice while the invitation waits beside my hand. Connor intended to attend the tasting, and whatever he hoped to find there was important enough to hide beneath his mattress.

Saturday night, Birdie and I are walking into Dragorin Vineyards in his place, and Andrei Dragorin is going to tell me what my brother wanted from that list.

5

ANDREI

By sunrise, Connor Brewster has been missing for four days.

I cross the eastern vineyard beside Leo while the harvest crews cut Cabernet Sauvignon from the vines. Work lights glow beneath a gray September sky, and tractors carry full bins toward the production building at the bottom of the slope. The air smells of wet soil and ripe fruit, but the morning’s familiarity does little to clear my thoughts.

I stop once to taste a grape from the final section scheduled for harvest. The seeds have browned, the skin breaks easily between my teeth, and the tannins have developed enough to confirm Leo’s decision.

“Take the rest of this block today, but leave the final six rows until tomorrow,” I tell him. “They need another afternoon of sun.”

“That was my plan.” Leo closes the small notebook he carries in his jacket pocket and studies me beneath the brim of his faded cap. “You passed three damaged clusters before you remembered to inspect one. Are the forty guests coming tonight troubling you?”