Flags went up in her mind. This wasn’t for logging. This was for a border.
The valley opened up. It wasn’t a forest floor. In the center, cutting a gray scar through the green, was a landing strip—paved, maintained, with no weeds pushing through the asphalt.
N372FL. The tail number from the sketch burned in her mind.
“A bit much for a hobby, isn’t it?” Izzy asked softly.
Cal didn’t look at the strip. He looked at her. “My dad likes to get where he’s going without being tracked by the FAA. Private planes, private arrivals.”
“Private business,” she whispered.
A chill ran down her spine, despite the midday sun. The place pressed in around her. This didn’t feel like a getaway.
It felt like a grave.
Cal pulled the car to a stop near a cluster of pines at the edge of the strip. He hopped out and walked around to her door, opening it before she could. The air here was thin and smelled of pine needles and old oil.
“You okay?” he asked. He stepped into her space, his shadow falling over her.
Izzy looked up at him. She was thinking about Grant. She was thinking about the cabin, the missing girl, and the man back in the stone house who squeezed her waist a little too hard. She was angry at the secrets. Angry at the mountain.
Cal reached out, his thumb grazing her jawline. He was handsome, and he looked like he wanted to protect her from the very place they were standing.
He leaned in.
She should have stopped him. Instead, she let him close the distance.
Izzy didn’t pull away. She let him kiss her—a hard, distracting heat that tasted like the bourbon they’d shared. It was a brief, sharp escape from the mystery.
But as he pulled back, his eyes dark and searching, Izzy looked past his shoulder.
“We should go,” she said, her voice steady. “I think I’ve seen enough of the ‘restricted’ side for one day.”
Cal nodded, a small, knowing smile on his face. He thought he’d won her over.
She’d found the X on the map.
27
Blackwood Estate Winery — Mid-Afternoon
Deputy Luke Hale slowed the cruiser as he passed through the gates of Blackwood Estate. One hundred eighty-seven acres of pristine, terraced hillsides stretched out ahead, grapevines marching in perfect green rows toward the sun. Blackboard fencing lined the drive, a sharp contrast against the rolling emerald grass.
In the center of it all stood the headquarters: a massive, matte-black barn, a monolith against the sky, softened only by the vibrant quilt square painted on its face—a traditional Tree of Life pattern in mulberry and cream that honored the mountain’s roots.
Inside, the rustic exterior gave way to a modern, high-ceilinged gallery space that led to the private residence—the grand Victorian with its sage-green walls and wraparound porches.
Mabel Blackwood met him at the door. She was the definition of Sylva genteel—blonde hair swept up, a string of pearls against a twinset, and a smile that was warm but didn’t quite reach her eyes at the sight of the uniform.
“Luke Hale,” she said, her voice a soft, melodic drawl. “I haven’t seen you since you moved back. Your mother says you’re settling in, though I imagine the pace is a bit different than what you’re used to.”
“It has its moments, Mabel.”
“I expect it does.” She turned, gesturing for him to follow. “Come. I was about to have tea. We can talk in the parlor.”
As they stepped into the room, the afternoon light poured through the tall Victorian windows. But Luke’s attention went straight to the fireplace.
Hanging above the mantel was a painting that pulled the very air out of the room. A mountain peak, rendered in bold, confident strokes, with a pasture in the foreground that looked soft enough to touch. The light was handled with haunting restraint—a golden-hour glow that felt like a goodbye.
