He thundered back downstairs. Bryson was in the kitchen on his phone, his face pale. He’d flipped on all the outside lights. The backyard looked like a midnight party.
"Sandy’s on her way," Bryson said. "I'm calling Dad and?—"
"There." Devon pointed out the back door at something glistening in the bright lighting.
In the grass, maybe twenty feet from the deck, a mug lay on its side. White travel mug against dark green grass, impossible to miss once he saw it.
Devon pushed open the door and raced down the steps, crossing the lawn in long strides. He bent over and examined the mug—coffee soaking into the ground beside it.
She'd been here. Right here, twenty feet from the house, and someone had?—
His vision tunneled. His hands shook so badly he nearly dropped the mug.
"Devon." Bryson's voice was calm despite the situation. "Come back inside. We need to search the house, make sure?—"
"She's not in the house." Devon's voice didn't sound like his own. It had grown dark. Distant. Empty. "Someone took her. Someone lured her out here and took her."
Lights flickered through second-floor windows. Voices called out, confused and alarmed.
Walter appeared in the doorway in his robe. "What's going on?"
"Emery's gone," Devon said. He stared out into the vineyard. The sky gave way to the faint glow of the morning rays peeking over the horizon. There was so much movement on the property during harvest. People milling about day and night. Motion detectors in specific locations had been turned off. "Someone took her. Someone who knew which blocks we’d be working on. Someone who had a basic understanding of our security system.”
"What?" Walter descended the steps, Brea right behind him in her nightgown and robe. "What do you mean someone took her?"
Devon held up his phone, showing the email. "This came ten minutes ago. It's not from her. It's fake. She's gone. Taken.”
Brea took the phone and read quickly. Her hand went to her mouth. "Oh my God."
Riley appeared next, followed by Ashley and Hasley. Then Michael Tate, Emery's father, his face draining of color as he took in the scene.” How did this happen?” Michael demanded.
“I don’t have that answer.” The words tasted like ash. "I left her here—I thought she'd be safe—there were people in the house?—"
“You can’t go down that road.” Walter's voice cut through the spiral. "This is not your fault."
"I left her alone." Devon’s pulse continued to increase. His chest tightened as if a wrecking ball had crashed into it, pinning him to a wall.
"The house was full of people," Brea said firmly. "We were all here. How could anyone have known?—"
"Because they've been watching." Devon's hands curled into fists. "They knew the harvest schedule. Knew I'd be in the vines. They knew how to get to her.”
Michael moved past them, out onto the lawn, his eyes scanning the ground. "No signs of a struggle here. She must have dropped the mug and tried to run, or—" He stopped, bending down. When he stood, he held something between his fingers. "Blood. On the grass. Not much, but some."
Devon felt bile rise in his throat. Blood. Emery's blood.
"Sandy's five minutes out," Bryson said, still on his phone. "She's bringing backup. They'll search the property, set up roadblocks?—"
"Whoever took her, they had this planned. They're not stupid enough to stick around,” Devon said. “And we have no idea where they went. What direction. We have nothing.”
Riley was typing furiously on her phone. "I'm checking security footage and texting a few neighbors, asking if they can check Ring cameras, anything. If they took her in a vehicle?—"
"Then they'll be long gone before we find anything." Devon wanted to hit something, wanted to destroy something, wanted to do anything but stand in his parents’ home feeling helpless while Emery was out there with someone who wanted her dead.
Walter gripped his shoulders, tight. "We will find her. We will get her back."
"What if we don't?" He let his gaze drift to the vines. The scent of freshly picked grapes whispered in the wind. Harvest had always been a mixture of excitement and dread. The anticipation of making a new year of wine. New blends. Perhaps a new flavor. But the work was hard. The hours are long. And he looked forward to when it was over. But this year, all the harvest had brought was a litany of lies. "What if we're too late?”
"Don't." Michael's voice rang out sharp. Strong. "My daughter is smart and fierce and a fighter. Whoever has her is going to regret it." But his eyes said what his words didn’t. He was terrified, too.
