The main house was a sprawling Victorian that had been in the Whitmore family for generations. Thomas had restored it himself over the years, and it showed—every detail was perfect, from the wraparound porch to the stained glass windows flanking the front door.
I knocked and waited.
Footsteps sounded inside, then the door swung open to reveal Bas, half asleep, hair sticking up on one side, wearing sweatpants and a wrinkled T-shirt. He blinked at me, then rubbed his eyes.
“Kick.” He stifled a yawn and ushered me inside. “I saw you guys come back late last night. Izzy’s okay?”
The casual use of her nickname—the one only certain people were allowed to use—didn’t bother me theway it might have a month ago. “She’s good. We’re good. And shit, I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you yesterday. There was just…a lot.”
“Glad you found her.” He rested against the wall. “So, if that’s all you came by to tell me, then next time, wait until a decent fucking hour, would you?” He squinted past me at the sky. “I mean, what time is it?”
“Uh, a little after six?”
“Jesus.” He pushed me out of the way so he could open the door. “Go back to bed, Avila. It’s way too early for this shit.”
I laughed, but it faded quickly. “Yeah, well, I’m not here to apologize. Even though I should be.” I took out my phone and showed him the text. “I’m here because your father asked me to come up to the house.”
Bas frowned at the screen. “My father?”
“That’s right.”
“Kick, my dad’s not here.” Bas straightened, suddenly more awake. “He meets a bunch of his buddies for breakfast in town every week. They get together at dawn, of all the ridiculous times. He left over an hour ago.”
We stared at each other.
The realization hit us both at the same moment.
“Oh my God,” Bas breathed.
I was already turning, already running, my boots pounding against the porch steps, the gravel path, the wet grass between the main house and the cottage. Behind me, I heard Bas swear, heard the door slam behind him, but I didn’t wait. I couldn’t wait.
The cottage door was open. Not ajar. Not cracked. Wide open, swinging gently in the morning breeze.
“Isabel!”I tore through the house. “Isabel!”
The bedroom was empty. The sheets were tangled and still warm when I pressed my hand to them. Her clothes from yesterday were draped over the chair. Her purse sat on the dresser, her phone beside it.
Bas appeared in the doorway, breathless, his feet shoved into unlaced boots. “She’s not?—”
“No!”The word came out raw. Broken. “She’s not here.”
“The security cameras.” Bas was already reaching for his phone. “Dad has cameras all over the property.”
His face went pale.
“What?” I grabbed the device out of his hand. “Let me see.”
I watched the footage with my heart in my throat. The time stamp showed five minutes ago, and I watched as Isabel walked out of the cottage.
Isabel, walking out of the cottage. She was wearing my T-shirt—the one she’d slept in—and a pair of jeans she must have put on in a hurry. Rubber boots, the kind we wore in the vineyards, were on her feet. A man walked beside her, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in black. His hand rested on her elbow. Not gripping. Guiding.
She wasn’t struggling. Wasn’t fighting. She walked to a dark SUV parked as close as it could get to the porch and climbed in without looking back.
I watched it three times. Four. Looking for something—a signal, a sign, anything that would tell me what had happened in those moments before the camera caught her.
The fifth time, I saw it.
Just before she climbed into the SUV, her hand moved to her stomach. A quick, protective gesture. She pressed her palm flat against the swell of our daughter, and then she got in the vehicle and was gone.
