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The question has nothing to do with Connor, the forged invoices, or why she is coming to my vineyard. That alone should make me close the image. Instead, I study it for several more seconds before opening the guest list Tessa sent.

Birdie Lawson.

Cassie Brewster.

I run my thumb along my jaw as I consider the second name. Tonight, Cassie will arrive expecting to investigate me. I’ll let her, because watching what she notices and which questions she asks may tell me more than a direct conversation would. Before the evening ends, I intend to learn what she knows about Connor and why she believes I’m involved.

What I don’t understand is why that no longer feels like the only thing I want to know about her.

6

CASSIE

The wrought-iron gates open before Birdie finishes explaining why the dark green dress she made me borrow from Lilly’s boutique is ideal for investigating a billionaire.

“It says elegant, trustworthy, and capable of recognizing a felony when you see one,” she says from the passenger seat, smoothing the rust-colored skirt over her knees. Her auburn hair falls in loose waves tonight instead of its usual half-finished knot or braid, and tiny gold leaves hang from her ears. “Your blue sweater said bookstore owner who might ask where the bathroom is and then reorganize the host’s shelves.”

“I am a bookstore owner who plans to ask where the bathroom is.” I guide my red Subaru between stone pillars bearing a metal crest shaped around a grapevine. “The rest depends on whether he’s organized his shelves correctly.”

Birdie turns toward me. Anyone looking at her would see a pretty woman headed to an expensive wine tasting, not my cousin preparing to help me investigate the last place Connor intended to visit before he vanished.

“You’re doing the thing with your locket again,” she says, her voice gentler as I rub the silver heart between my fingers. “If you polish it any harder, Grandma’s going to climb out and tell you to stop fidgeting.”

“She would ask why we’re entering a private estate under Connor’s invitation, and no answer I gave her would be convincing.” I release the necklace and follow the curving drive through vines washed in the last copper light of evening. “Do you have legal language prepared if this ends badly?”

“We’re looking for Connor because the police are treating thirty-two like a magical age when people stop having families who worry.” Birdie gestures toward the invitation lying between us. “Tessa approved our names, which puts us closer to unexpected guests than trespassers.”

“That distinction should bring both of us tremendous comfort.”

“It would bring me more comfort if you promised not to wander into any locked rooms.” Concern tightens her mouth as she studies me. “We agreed to ask questions, look around, and avoid any plan that ends with your dad learning about it from the county sheriff.”

“I promise I’ll think before doing anything reckless.”

Birdie releases a long breath. “That wasn’t the promise I asked for, and you know it.”

A camera turns above the next bend and follows the Subaru as we pass. Small lights glow among the tall maples, guiding us deeper onto Dragorin land while the gates vanish behind us.

Connor has been missing for four days. A stranger has searched his apartment, his manager claims he’s home sick without speaking to him, and the police have offered more patience than help. Now I am driving toward the man Connor met on the night he disappeared.

Andrei Dragorin owns enough property to hide an entire town behind one gate.

The vineyard appears beyond the trees in stages, beginning with rows of vines flowing down a broad slope toward a production building made of timber, stone, and glass. Farther uphill, cottages sit among gardens bright with late roses and white hydrangeas. A modern stone residence crowns the ridge above an event pavilion lit by chandeliers.

The whole estate emerges from the land instead of sitting on top of it, which must have required an architect, several million dollars, and many meetings where people used the word organic without referring to food.

Valets direct a line of cars around a circular drive. A silver coupe pauses behind a black sedan that costs more than The Book Corner earns in a year.

“We should have washed the Subaru twice,” Birdie murmurs as we pull forward, eyeing the sleek black sedan ahead. “Once doesn’t feel respectful enough.”

“It has four tires and no warning lights, which makes it one of the more dependable relationships either of us has had.” I pat the dashboard before easing closer to the valet stand.

Birdie braces one hand against the door when the car makes its familiar click. “That defense would be more convincing if it didn’t make that noise whenever you turn left.”

“That’s how it expresses joy,” I tell her, keeping my face serious.

I pass the keys to a young valet in a black jacket, then step onto pale stone beneath an awning. Cool mountain air brushes my face, carrying woodsmoke, damp earth, and crushed fruit from the winery below.

Women in silk and tailored wool move toward the pavilion beside men discussing vintages, restaurant openings, and distribution territories. Their clothes look effortlessly expensive, like they took several appointments to pull off, while I’m wearing borrowed earrings and wondering whether my ankle boots have enough polish.