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“Forty guests don’t concern me.”

“Forty wealthy guests with expensive opinions should concern you a little.”

“Reid concerns himself enough for both of us.”

Leo doesn’t smile. He’s worked beside me since I was a child, which gives him an unfortunate ability to recognize when my attention is elsewhere.

“This is about the banker,” he says. “What did his manager say?”

“He believes Connor is home sick, although he hasn’t spoken to him.”

Leo’s mouth pulls into a firm line. “That’s not an answer.”

“No, it’s an excuse.”

Rick Whitmore offered a weak excuse when I visited Evergreen National Bank. Connor might have a virus. He could be sleeping. He had always been reliable, so there was no reason to assume his absence meant he was in danger. Rick offered every possibility except the one the facts support: no one has heard from Connor since Tuesday night.

In my former life, accepting a convenient explanation without proof could get a man killed. Respectable offices and tailored suits have never made lies less dangerous.

Connor met me at Bellucci’s because forged Dragorin Vineyards invoices had appeared in several commercial loan files. He found the same vendor names, addresses, and payment amounts repeated among borrowers who appeared unrelated. None of the invoices came from my company, yet each one had been convincing enough to support loans issued through his bank.

He refused to identify the borrowers or the employees who approved them until he could verify the full pattern. Connor feared that accusing the wrong person would alert whoever created the documents, and I respected his caution even as I resented being asked to wait while another man investigated fraud involving my family’s name.

Our meals had arrived when his phone rang. Connor looked at the caller’s name, and the color drained from his face before he answered. He listened without speaking, his fingers tightening around the phone until his knuckles turned white.

“I have to take care of something,” he said after ending the call. He stood so quickly that he bumped the table. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

When he didn’t return, I called him. By then, he was already gone.

I should have followed him.

The thought returns every time my call goes to voicemail, but regret won’t help me find him. I can only decide what to do next.

Leo touches my arm, bringing my attention back to the vineyard. Concern deepens the lines around his brown eyes, but he doesn’t insult either of us with reassurance unsupported by facts.

“You believe the call was connected to the invoices,” he says.

“I believe it frightened him, and four days have passed without anyone hearing his voice.”

“Have you spoken to his family?”

“I don’t know them.”

Connor never mentioned a wife or girlfriend during our meetings. I know he grew up in Aldermere, that his father taught mathematics, and that his mother died years ago, but none of those details give me the name of someone who might know where he went Tuesday night.

Leo studies me for several seconds. “What have you done besides call him and visit the bank?”

“I sent someone to his apartment Wednesday evening.”

His expression tightens, but he doesn’t look surprised. Leo knows me too well to believe I would wait politely while a man connected to my company disappeared.

“And?”

“Connor wasn’t there. His car was gone, but most of his clothing and personal belongings remained. There was no blood, no damage, and no indication that anyone forced him to leave.” I glance toward the harvest crews moving through the rows below us. “Two women had entered the apartment shortly before my man arrived. He waited until they left, searched for anything connected to Dragorin Vineyards, and found nothing.”

“You had a stranger’s home searched because he missed a few telephone calls?”

“I had it searched because he uncovered fraud involving my company, left dinner after a call frightened him, and disappeared before he could tell me who was responsible.”