"I know." Devon's arm tightened around her. "I am, too."
And somehow, his admission made her feel less alone. Less like she was crazy for being terrified. Because she should be terrified. Someone wanted her dead. Had wanted her dead for months. And now, they had proof of the conspiracy, but not the person pulling the trigger.
Walter stood, phone already in his hand. "I'm calling Sandy, now. Bryson, take these documents and make copies—multiple copies. Riley, document everything Vanessa said while it's fresh."
They moved into action, purposeful and organized. But Emery couldn't move. Couldn't think past the words in that text message.
Devon stayed beside her, his hand in hers, solid and warm and genuine. The only thing keeping her grounded while her world continued to splinter apart.
Sixteen
The kitchen clock read 5:03 AM. Its soft ticking was the only sound in the sleeping house. Emery sat at the island with her hands wrapped around a mug of chamomile tea that had gone lukewarm while she stared at nothing. Sleep had been impossible—every time she closed her eyes, she saw Harold's forged documents, Winston's check, and those text messages.
Devon and Bryson had been out most of the night to help with the final harvest push. The last blocks needed to be picked before the rain moved in tomorrow, and even at four in the morning, the vineyard crew was working under portable lights. Devon had kissed her forehead before leaving, made her promise to stay inside with the doors locked, unless she was specifically told otherwise.
She'd promised. And she'd meant it.
But now, the house felt too quiet, too empty, too much like a tomb. She’d texted Devon twice since she’d gotten out of bed—but hadn’t heard anything in response. That didn’t surprise her, considering he was most likely knee deep in dirt, vines, and grapes.
She took a sip of her beverage and grimaced. Nothing worse than cold tea. Emery stood, dumping it in the sink, and filledthe kettle again. The small domestic task gave her something to focus on besides the fear coiled tight in her chest. She pulled a fresh tea bag from the canister and went through the motions of normalcy while her mind raced in circles.
Someone wanted her dead. Someone who was still out there, still planning, still waiting for the right moment to execute their plan.
The kettle began to whistle softly. Emery lifted it before it could reach full volume, not wanting to wake anyone else in the house —a thought that should have made her chuckle, considering how large the Boone estate was. Brea and Walter were in what was called the master wing. Ashley and Hasley were in their wing. Riley had stayed over in Bryson's wing. Her father was down the hall from Devon’s old room, which also had its own hallway—or wing, which consisted of three bedrooms, like all the other wings, except the master. The house was full of people, but at this hour, Emery felt utterly alone.
She poured the hot water over her tea bag, watching it steep as the water turned amber. Steam rose in lazy curls, and she breathed in the chamomile scent, trying to calm nerves that felt stretched to breaking.
A shadow carrying a light in the vines caught her attention.
Emery set down her mug, her heart rate picking up. She moved toward the back door, peering through the window. The porch was dark. Beyond it, the vineyard stretched away into pre-dawn darkness, the portable work lights visible in the distance like earthbound stars.
Her cell vibrated on the counter. She lifted it and her heart fluttered as a message from Ralph, one of the production workers flashed on her screen.
Ralph:Hey, this is Devon. My phone died. Bryson wants a decent, hot, cup of coffee and you know him when it comes tohis brew. I told him I’d get it since I wanted to check on you. Mind meeting me by the edge of the vines with it?
Emery:I’ll be out in five.
She set her phone down, snagged a mug, and set it under the fancy machine before digging through the coffee pods for the blend that Bryson liked. She’d never met anyone so particular about the flavor and temperature of coffee. Tapping her fingers on the counter, she waited for the machine to heat up and spit out the brew. Once it was done, she headed for the back door and pulled it open.
The October air was cold, sharp enough to make her wish she'd grabbed a jacket. She pulled her cardigan tighter, scanning the darkness. A shadow appeared between the rows of neatly aligned grapes.
"Devon, is that you?"
The silhouette stepped into the clearing, the light pointed toward the ground, and an arm raised—waving.
She moved down the deck steps, a travel mug in hand, her bare feet cold against the wood.
"Is everything okay?" she asked, walking across the lawn toward the figure. "Why didn't you answer?"
The light disappeared, and a shadow moved closer. Something in Emery's chest went cold.
Something was wrong.
The build was wrong. The movement was wrong. This wasn't Devon.
She stopped, her body understanding before her brain caught up. The figure was still approaching, faster now.
The travel mug slipped from her fingers, hitting the grass with a dull thud. She spun toward the house, adrenaline spiking through her veins.
