“We’ve got twelve bottles of the ’82 Lafite here,” the deputy said, pointing to a wooden crate on the floor.

“Those match the serial numbers from the estate’s west wing cellar,” Lydia said, marking her own pad.

I walked closer to the rack, my heels clicking loudly on the stone floor.

On the bottom shelf, tucked behind a row of modern cabernets, was a dusty wooden box with a brass latch.

The wood was dark, stained by decades of cellar humidity, and it bore the burnt-in stamp of the Hayes vineyard.

“That’s my father’s personal reserve,” I whispered.

Malcolm stepped forward and pulled the box out, placing it on a wooden tasting table in the center of the room.

He flipped the latch and lifted the lid.

Inside lay three bottles of 1945 Romanée-Conti, nestled in green velvet cradles.

“These are the bottles Cole Brantley was trying to broker last month,” Lydia said, taking a photograph with her phone.

“I bought those myself,” Sloane said from the stairs, her voice trembling. “I have the receipts.”

“From whom, Sloane?” I asked, turning to face her. “From my husband? Or from Vivian?”