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“You didn’t look at the picture long enough to know whether you recognize him.” I keep my voice friendly, although the refusal tightens the worry inside my chest. “Have you seen him here before?”

“Mr. Dragorin values the privacy of everyone who visits the estate.” The man lifts the final glass from the table and adds it to his tray. “If you have a question about a guest, Ms. Morales can assist you.”

That’s not an answer, but it sounds rehearsed enough to have been given before.

“Did someone tell the staff not to discuss Connor?” I ask.

His expression remains pleasant, but his fingers close more firmly around the edge of the tray. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Ms. Brewster.”

He walks toward the service area before I can ask how he knows my name.

The employees may not know anything about Connor, but they all know who I am. Andrei has warned them about me, or this entire estate runs on a level of preparation that makes The Book Corner’s handwritten lunch schedule look alarmingly casual.

When I turn, Andrei is watching me from across the pavilion while a restaurant owner speaks beside him. He raises his glass in a gesture that could be a toast, a warning, or acknowledgment that I have learned exactly as much as he intended.

Nothing.

I look away and notice a framed estate map beside the terrace doors. The pavilion occupies the center, with the tasting lodge and gardens above it, the production winery below, and the administration building across the courtyard. A smaller line beneath the building’s name identifies executive offices, accounting, and visitor reception.

Connor came here because of his work at the bank. If his meeting with Andrei happened anywhere on the estate, the administration building is the most likely place.

I find Birdie seated beside Reid at a high table, with Tessa standing beside them, holding a tablet under one arm. Birdie meets my eyes, and I glance toward the estate map before looking at the terrace doors.

We arranged the signal in the car, although at the time it felt more like an emergency measure than a plan I would use. Birdie follows my glance, takes a sip of wine, and launches into action with alarming enthusiasm.

“Tessa, you have to answer this because Reid is clearly biased,” Birdie says as I approach. “If a person owns a farmhouse with original built-ins and paints them white, is that poor judgment or a moral failure?”

“How white?” Tessa asks, considering the question seriously.

“Hospital corridor under fluorescent lighting.”

Tessa presses a hand to her chest. “Then I regret to inform him that rehabilitation may no longer be possible.”

“My cabinets are not white,” Reid says, looking between them with amused caution.

“We don’t know that yet.” Birdie turns toward him and rests one elbow on the table. “You’ve provided no photographic evidence, so now Tessa and I need a complete description of your kitchen.”

Reid glances at me before returning to Birdie. If he recognizes the distraction, he appears interested enough in her to allow it.

“Are you planning to restore my kitchen or prosecute me?” he asks.

“That depends on the countertops,” Birdie replies, drawing him and Tessa into a debate about soapstone.

I place my untouched glass on a passing tray and walk toward the terrace as if I need air. At the railing, I pause to admire the view for anyone watching before following a stone path past the hedge and into the courtyard.

Music and conversation fade behind me, replaced by the hum of winery equipment and the crunch of gravel beneath my boots. The administration building stands across the courtyard, its ground-floor windows reflecting the pavilion lights. A brass sign identifies visitor reception beside a glass entrance. The door opens when I test it, which is not breaking in by any useful definition. Technically, I’m only entering.

The lobby smells faintly of cedar and coffee. A stone wall displays black-and-white photographs of vineyard harvests, while a broad reception desk faces a staircase leading to the second floor. Only a few wall sconces remain lit, leaving the corners dim after the pavilion’s warmth.

I stand inside and listen for footsteps. Nothing moves above me, but a mechanical whir sounds deeper in the first-floor hallway, followed by the dry bite of blades chewing paper.

A shredder.

The noise stops, then begins again. Whoever is working feeds documents through in batches, pausing between each stack. People shred old contracts, duplicate reports, and records past their retention dates.

They also shred evidence four days after a banker disappears.

My heart beats harder as I pass the reception desk. Framed photographs line the corridor, showing Andrei beside vineyard crews, charity boards, and chefs whose restaurants I recognize from magazines. In one photograph, he stands with Sofia and Leo beneath a harvest banner, while Mila leans against his shoulder and Reid raises a bottle behind them. Andrei is younger and smiling, his expression so different that I nearly stop.