And Devon had a sinking feeling they were only seeing the opening moves.
Emery settled deeper into the bed in the guesthouse, her phone screen casting a soft glow in the darkened room. Outside, the vineyard sprawled in shadowy rows beneath a sliver of moon, and the only sounds were the whisper of wind through leaves and the distant hoot of an owl.
Her phone buzzed with another text from Devon.
Devon:You should be sleeping. Early morning tomorrow.
Emery:Says the man who's also awake texting me.
Devon:Fair point. But I have an excuse. I'm reviewing harvest schedules.
Emery:And I'm reviewing provenance documentation. We're both workaholics.
Devon:Okay, but you’re obsessed.
She smiled despite herself. He wasn't wrong. She'd spent the last four hours cross-referencing storage conditions with vintage years, building the kind of meticulous documentation that would make collectors salivate.
Emery:Fine. I'm turning off the light now. Happy?
Devon:Delighted. Sleep well.
Emery:Goodnight.
She set the phone on the nightstand and reached for the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. The sudden absence of light made the shadows deeper, the silence more pronounced. She pulled the throw blanket over herself, closed her eyes, and let exhaustion pull her under.
She had no idea how long she’d been asleep when a sound woke her—sharp, distinct, entirely out of place.
Metal scraping against metal. The unmistakable click of a lock disengaging.
Emery's eyes snapped open, her heart immediately racing. She lay frozen on the bed, straining to hear over the rush of blood in her ears. The darkness pressed in, familiar furniture shapes rendered menacing by adrenaline and fear.
Another sound. Softer this time. Footsteps? Or just the house settling?
She reached for her phone with trembling fingers, the screen's brightness making her squint—2:47 AM.
Swinging her legs over the side of the mattress, she found her slippers and tiptoed toward the slightly opened door.
Movement. Definite movement near the French doors that led to the patio.
Terror flooded her system, sharp and chemical. Someone was inside the guest-house.
With trembling fingers, she tapped the screen on her cell as she raced toward the bathroom, quietly closing the door behind her.
"9-1-1, what's your emergency?"
"Someone's in my house." Her whisper came out strangled, barely audible. "Stone Bridge Winery, the guesthouse. Please, someone's here."
"Are you in a safe location, ma'am?"
"I'm in the bathroom off the bedroom. I saw movement in the living room.”
The French doors rattled. Then silence.
“I think they're leaving." Emery glanced out the window but couldn’t see anything. Every muscle tensed for flight. “I can’t see anything from where I am.”
"Officers are three minutes away. Stay on the line with me."
But Emery's mind was already moving, already pulling up Devon's number with shaking fingers.
