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He spent twelve years in the Army, including several overseas deployments, before I hired him to build the vineyard’s security program. Since then, he has become one of the few men whose judgment I trust without question. His engagement to my cousin Mila, Leo and Sofia’s daughter, makes him family, although Sofia began treating him like a son long before he proposed.
“The gates are closed, and my team is checking each building,” he reports. “The camera system remained online throughout the outage. I haven’t seen anyone enter production or the barrel wing.”
“Check the footage from every exterior camera, including the service roads and wooded boundary,” I instruct him. “This may have been intended to draw your attention here while another area was breached.”
Drew nods once before speaking into the radio clipped to his belt. He doesn’t question why I consider an electrical failure a possible diversion. His years protecting military facilities taught him that accidents become less convincing when they occur in useful locations.
Reid crosses the courtyard from the administration building, his navy shirt open at the collar and a tablet in his hand. His dark hair remains neat despite the pace that brought him here, though concern has tightened his face.
“The offices never lost power,” he says. “Neither did the tasting pavilion, villas, stable, or main house. The failure appears limited to this building and the barrel-storage wing.”
“That rules out a transformer serving the entire property,” I reply.
“It could still be a damaged line or a failed breaker.” Reid looks toward the winery, where the generator continues carrying the essential systems. “I called the utility company. They’re checking for a wider outage.”
My phone rings before he finishes, and the facilities supervisor reports that an electrician is tracing the affected circuit from the barrel wing toward the eastern boundary. I tell him to photograph anything unusual before touching it and return the phone to my pocket.
“Production continues,” I tell Reid. “Have the cellar supervisors restart each line after they confirm it’s safe. The harvest crews keep cutting.”
“If this was intentional, continuing could expose people to another failure,” Reid cautions.
“Stopping sends everyone into the same open areas and gives the person responsible the disruption he wanted. We increase protection without surrendering the day.”
Reid holds my gaze, then inclines his head.
Drew’s radio carries reports from across the estate. The stable and residences are secure. No one has disturbed the locks at the equipment barns, and the server room remains protected. His officers find no unidentified vehicles inside the gates and no visitors near the fuel tanks or water systems.
Leo emerges from the production building after accounting for every employee. His canvas jacket is open now, exposing the burgundy flannel beneath it, and grape juice stains one cuff.
“No injuries,” he reports. “One bin tipped when the conveyor stopped, but the fruit can be salvaged. The cellar team is restarting the equipment.”
“Keep everyone inside their assigned work areas until Drew completes the vehicle checks.”
Leo glances toward the security officers moving across the yard. “Some of these people have worked for us for twenty years.”
“Then they know the value of protecting what they helped build.”
His eyes narrow. “Searching their vehicles will feel like an accusation.”
“Wounded pride can be repaired, while a failure in security may cost a life.” I lower my voice before adding, “Connor disappeared after finding forged invoices bearing our name. Until I know whether this outage is connected, I assume it is.”
Leo’s concern changes at the mention of Connor. He may dislike the order, but he understands why I give it.
“I’ll explain it to the crew leaders,” he says. “They will hear it better from me.”
“Thank you, dyadya.” Uncle.
Drew approaches again, phone in one hand. “The utility company has no reported interruption anywhere in Ember Ridge. Their system shows normal service reaching the estate.”
Reid exhales through his nose. “Then the failure is ours.”
“The failure belongs to whoever caused it,” I correct him. “We’re only responsible for finding that person.”
Twenty minutes pass before the electrician calls us toward the eastern edge of the property. We take one of the vineyard utility vehicles down a service lane that curves behind the barrel wing, then leave it near the final row of vines. Beyond the trellis lies a narrow strip of open ground bordered by cedar and pine. Rain darkens the bark, and fallen needles soften the forest floor.
The electrician waits beside an exterior junction box mounted on a concrete post. He’s in his fifties, with rain beaded across the shoulders of his work jacket and insulated gloves covering his hands. The box’s metal door hangs open beside him.
“The lock wasn’t forced,” he explains. “Someone opened it with a pick or a narrow tool. They damaged the line feeding the barrel wing and half of production, but left the rest alone.”
