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“I am,” I admit. “But I will find out whether this has anything to do with Connor.”

Cassie picks up the planner. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

“I expect you to,” I tell her.

She walks toward the door, then looks back at me once before leaving. I remain beside the table with the envelope in my hand.

Twelve years is a long time to wait for revenge, but whoever sent the date has been patient. Cassie is now inside my gates, close enough to be protected and close enough to pay for what I did.

11

CASSIE

Murphy wakes me by pressing his cold nose against my cheek. I open one eye to find him standing on the pillow, his orange fur lit by the pale morning beyond the guesthouse windows. He’s endured two car trips in five days, spent last night in a strange house, and still believes breakfast should arrive at its usual hour.

“You could have let me sleep another ten minutes,” I murmur.

He steps on my hair.

I pull it free and sit up. The guesthouse bedroom looks different in the daylight. Rain has left beads of water on the glass, but the sky beyond the vines is clearing. A wool throw lies folded over the chair near the fireplace, and my overnight bag stands beside a carved wooden wardrobe large enough to contain everything I own. Last night, I noticed none of it for more than a moment. I was too busy checking the locks and praying for news about Connor.

My phone lies on the bedside table. I reach for it before I put my feet on the floor. Two messages are from my part-time assistant, who agreed to open the bookstore today and accept the morning deliveries, and one from Birdie sent twenty minutes ago.

Birdie: There is coffee downstairs. Murphy’s breakfast is in the kitchen. I checked.

No message from Connor.

Murphy rubs his face against my wrist, pushing beneath the phone until I lower it. He bumps his forehead against my chin, an unusually generous greeting from a cat who spent the drive here protesting every mile.

“You like this place,” I accuse.

His purr answers before I can pretend I imagined it.

I carry him into the kitchen, where his bowls sit on a mat near the back door. Someone has set out a covered container of his food, along with the small measuring scoop from my bag. The sight eases an irritation I hadn’t admitted to myself. I agreed to stay because someone tried the bookstore lock, but I expected to spend the night explaining to strangers that Murphy eats twice a day and can’t be trusted around open doors.

He finishes breakfast, winds once around my ankles, and follows me to the sitting room. Instead of asking to be let out or inspecting the unfamiliar furniture, he jumps onto the sofa beneath the window. He presses himself into the corner of a cushion, tucks his paws under his chest, and watches me with the satisfaction of a landlord inspecting a tenant.

“You’re handling this better than I am.”

His eyes close.

I make coffee and take it to the front windows. The guesthouse sits east of the main residence, with a stone path running between beds of lavender and late roses. Beyond it, vineyard rows descend toward the production buildings. Harvest crews are already moving among them, their jackets bright against the green and gold leaves. A tractor carries bins down the hill while another returns empty.

The estate looked beautiful when we arrived yesterday, which bothered me. I wanted the place Andrei brought us to feel like a fortress, with cameras and armed men so that I could stay angry without distraction. In daylight, it looks like people have spent years caring for it.

I think about the note delivered to Andrei during our meeting. A single date from twelve years ago had emptied the color from his face. He told me it belonged to a man who died, then stopped before he could tell me how he knew him. When I asked whether the death connected to Connor, he said he would find out. I believed that he meant it. I also knew he was keeping the worst part to himself.

A knock comes from the guesthouse’s inner door before Birdie lets herself in. She wears jeans, boots, and a rust-colored sweater, with her hair braided over one shoulder. A smear of pale dust marks the cuff near her wrist.

“Why are you already dirty?” I ask.

“I found a walnut sideboard in the breakfast room.” She looks past me to the sofa. “And our brave protector has abandoned his post.”

I gesture toward Murphy’s sprawl as though presenting a satisfied guest. “Murphy has decided the sofa meets his standards.”

Birdie crosses to him and offers a hand for inspection. He opens one eye, sniffs her fingers, then returns to sleep.

“That hurts,” Birdie tells Murphy, withdrawing her hand when he closes his eyes. “I defended you when Andrei called you a better judge of danger than we are.”