Malcolm stepped forward, his boots heavy on the hardwood floor.

He pulled a pair of blue nitrile gloves from his pocket and snapped them onto his hands with a sharp pop.

“I need everyone to step away from the table, please,” Malcolm said, his voice firm.

Sloane slid her chair back, her face pale under her heavy makeup.

Malcolm carefully lifted the bottle of Chateau Latour by its neck, avoiding the label.

He pointed his camera at the bottle again, capturing the serial number printed near the base of the glass.

The flash flared, casting harsh shadows across the walls.

He placed the bottle inside a clear plastic evidence bag and sealed the blue adhesive top.

“The cork is still in the kitchen sink, Deputy,” I said, pointing toward the open door.

My voice sounded steadier than I felt, though my hands were cold.

Malcolm nodded and walked toward the kitchen, his leather holster creaking with every step.

“You did this,” Sloane whispered, turning on Evan.

“You told me she couldn’t touch this place.”

“Shut up, Sloane,” Evan muttered, his face flushed a deep, angry red.