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I wait until the hallway falls completely silent, then take out my phone and call the man I sent to Connor’s apartment. He answers before the second ring.

“The two women you saw leaving Brewster’s building. Describe them,” I instruct.

“One was tall with brown hair and blue eyes,” he replies. “Late twenties, maybe thirty. The other was shorter, with auburn hair. They left together in the same car.”

I rise and walk toward the windows. “Did you get a photograph?”

“Not a good one.”

I return to the table, sit down, and open my laptop. “Send it.”

The image arrives quickly. I bring it up on the monitor and enlarge it. The distance makes it grainy, but I can see both women beside a red Subaru Crosstrek. The shorter one stands near the passenger door with a canvas bag over her shoulder. Her head is turned toward Connor’s building.

I lean closer to the screen. “Did they see you?”

“No. They were gone before I entered the apartment,” he confirms.

“Did you find anything that identified them?”

“Nothing.” Papers rustle on his end of the call. “I searched for documents connected to Dragorin Vineyards, like you asked. There weren’t any photographs on display or anything identifying the women.”

I study the shorter woman, taking in what little the photograph reveals. “Find out if the building has exterior security footage.”

“The manager won’t release it without a warrant.”

I sit back and run my thumb along the edge of my phone. “You’ve dealt with less cooperative men.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says.

My hand stills. “Do more than see.”

I end the call before he can answer.

Tessa’s message arrives a moment later with the telephone number used to change Connor’s reservation. It belongs to Birdie Lawson, who owns a furniture restoration business in Aldermere.

I open her website. Most of the photographs show furniture in various stages of repair. Tables stripped down to bare wood. Chairs with torn fabric removed. Old cabinets with the damage repaired but enough wear left to preserve their character.

Birdie appears on the About page. She is the shorter woman from the photograph outside Connor’s apartment.

I scroll through the list of businesses that sell her work and stop at The Book Corner. The link takes me to the bookstore’s website. It occupies the ground floor of an old brick building on Aldermere’s main street. Dark green paint frames the windows, and gold lettering stretches across the glass. Several pieces of Birdie’s restored furniture appear inside, including a reading chair beside an overfilled shelf and a narrow table covered with new releases.

A local article linked on the website identifies the owner as Cassandra Brewster.

Cassie.

I search her full name and find a photograph from Aldermere’s fall festival last year. Cassandra Brewster stands outside the bookstore with Birdie Lawson. A handwritten sign offers discounted mysteries, and an orange cat sits in the middle of the display as if he owns the building.

Cassie laughs at something outside the frame. My fingers move over the trackpad, enlarging the photograph. Her chestnut brown hair falls past her shoulders, and even in the small photograph, her blue eyes catch my attention. She has Connor’s eyes and the same shape to her mouth, although I didn’t notice the resemblance at first.

There are others. Cassie reading to a group of children. Cassie holding the same displeased cat while Birdie tries to put a holiday hat on him. Cassie standing beside an older man identified as Thomas Brewster during a fundraiser for a local memory care center.

Connor rarely discussed his personal life, although he once mentioned that his father had taught mathematics before becoming ill. He never said anything about Cassie.

I return to the photograph taken outside Connor’s apartment. Her face is less distinct, but I recognize her now. She’s the one looking back at the building. If she’s Connor’s sister, she has probably been searching for him since Wednesday. She may know what frightened him at Bellucci’s or what he intended to verify. At the very least, she knows he’s missing.

Instead of calling the vineyard and explaining who she is, she chose to use Connor’s invitation, which means she likely suspects me. My jaw clenches at the thought, but when I return to the festival photograph, my interest has little to do with the complication she presents.

Most people change when they see a camera. They straighten, arrange their faces, and show the world whatever version of themselves they want others to see. Cassie isn’t looking at the person taking the photograph. Her laughter appears genuine, and I find myself wondering who or what caused it.