"What does that mean?" Emery asked.
"It means either he's genuinely innocent of any wrongdoing, or he's very good at covering his tracks." Sandy stuffed her pad into her pocket. "No red flags, no complaints, no financial irregularities. I can’t find anything that suggests he’s ever forged a vintage collection, and no trace of large sums of money that suggests a payoff.”
"So we're nowhere,” Emery said softly.
"Not nowhere. We know someone broke into this guesthouse tonight. We know someone submitted an anonymous tip to the reporter. We just don't know who or why." Sandy moved closer toward the door. "I'm going to file a report, increase patrol frequency through the vineyard. And I'd recommend you don’t stay alone for a bit. And maybe set up a different security system in this place.”
“I’ll have something installed by tomorrow afternoon,” Devon said.
“We’ll be in touch.” Sandy turned, and she and her deputy strolled out of the guesthouse.
After the police left, Devon and Emery sat in silence. The weight of everything—the break-in, the ongoing attacks, the feeling of being hunted—pressed down like physical force.
"My father has a PI looking into things," Devon said finally.
Emery's head snapped up. "What?"
"Declan. He worked on Riley's mother's case. Dad hired him after that article. He's investigating Harold, the article, and anyone who might have motivation to come after you." Devon wouldn't meet her eyes.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
“He’s looking into your father as well,” Devon said.
Fury ignited in Emery's chest, hot and sharp. "You're having me investigated? My family?"
"Not you. Never you." Devon turned to face her. "But the article brought up your father's situation. We need to know if there's truth to it, if someone could use it against you—against us."
"So you just decided to dig into my family's private business without asking me?"
"We're trying to protect you."
"By treating me like a suspect?" She stood, the blanket falling away. "By assuming my father's guilty of something?"
"That's not what this is?—"
"Then what is it? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you don't trust me. Like you think there might be fire with all that smoke."
Devon rose, closing the distance between them. "I think someone is systematically destroying your life, and I want to know who and why. If that means investigating every angle, including uncomfortable ones about your father's past, then yes, that's what we're doing."
"Without telling me. Without giving me a chance to?—"
"To what? To protect him? To hide evidence?" Devon's voice rose. “Someone broke into your house tonight. Someone is targeting you specifically. This isn't about hurting your feelings or doubting your integrity. This is about keeping you safe."
"By violating my privacy?"
"By finding answers before whoever's doing this escalates from break-ins to something worse."
The words hit like cold water. Emery felt her anger deflate, replaced by the same crushing fear that made her hide in a damn bathroom.
"What if the PI finds something?" Her voice came out small. "What if my father really did what they accused him of?"
"Then we deal with it. Together." Devon's expression softened. "But whatever he did or didn't do, that's not on you. You're not responsible for his choices."
"Everyone will think I am. They'll say it runs in the family, that questionable ethics are hereditary—they’re already saying it.” Tears threatened once again. "I've spent my entire life trying to prove I belong somewhere. That I'm good enough, smart enough, honest enough. And now?—"
Devon pulled her into his arms, cutting off her words. She resisted for a moment, then melted into him, her face pressed against his chest.
"You are good enough," he said fiercely. "You're brilliant and talented and ethical. Anyone who knows you knows that."
