“My place, and when we get there, you’re gonna concentrate long and hard about what Isabel might have said or done that you didn’t pick up on.”
“I already did.”
“Not my way, you didn’t.”
My mouth gaped. “What’s your way?”
“Hypnosis.”
“You’re joking.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “Maybe. Then again, maybe not.”
My brother’s so-called “hypnosis”involved us working the dormant fields at his ranch, Poppy Hill, until I was so exhausted I could hardly move. The good news was that, once I got home, I slept so hard I didn’t wake up until I got a call from Press a little before noon.
“She flew SLO to San Francisco. Same day you dropped her off. But she never boarded the international connection to Italy. She rented a car at SFO instead.”
San Francisco. Not Italy.
“Can you track her after that?”
“Working on it. She paid cash for the rental, but the company has GPS data. Ridge’s PIs are on it.”
I spent the next twenty-four hours obsessively checking for messages. And trying to reach Isabel. Small updates trickled in—the rental car GPS had been disabled after she left the airport. No hospital admissions matching her description. No police reports. No accidents.
She’d vanished somewhere into Northern California.
Finally, an update came in Sunday morning at seven. “Meeting in the caves as soon as you can get there,” Brix said. “We found her.”
5
ISABEL
It was just after eight in the morning when I had my single suitcase packed and was ready to check out of the rental cottage. Everything I had fit into one bag. The realization should have bothered me more than it did. Even the subcompact rental car should have, but it didn’t. This was my life now, and honestly, I kinda liked it. At least I wasn’t walking on eggshells every minute of every day, wondering what else I’d do to piss off my father.
Bas had texted me to meet him at the main house at nine. Knowing it would only take ten minutes to get there, at a quarter to, I headed over. When I arrived, he was waiting on the porch, coffee cup in hand, and his easy smile already in place.
“Morning, Izzy!” He jogged down the steps as I parked. “Ready to see your new place?”
“Lead the way.”
He opened my car door with an exaggerated bow. “Your chariot awaits. Well, my truck. Close enough.”
I grabbed my purse and followed him. The drive around the property showcased their operation—Pinot Noir clones, rootstock choices, and elevation changes that created different microclimates across the estate. His enthusiasm, like so many things about him, was infectious. And he was attractive. Anyone with eyes could see that.
Tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of build that came from years of physical work. Dark hair that always looked a bit tousled, like he’d just run his fingers through it. A face that made women look twice.
If I could fall for someone, Bas would make it easy. But I didn’t feel that way about him. I never had. The spark just wasn’t there, despite how perfect he looked on paper.
“See that section?” He pointed to rows climbing a hillside. “Best fruit on the whole property.”
“You say that about every section.”
“Because it’s true.” He widened his eyes in mock offense.
Three guest cottages sat scattered across the property. He showed me all of them—one near the main house, one by the equipment barns, and one tucked into a hillside overlooking the westernmost vineyard.
“That one,” I said, pointing to the last one.
