I nodded and got into the passenger seat of Malcolm’s unmarked sedan.

The engine rumbled to life, the windshield wipers clearing the heavy rain.

We drove through the slick streets of the city, leaving the courthouse behind.

My mind was racing.

Magnolia Hill had been in my family for three generations.

My father had planted the vineyards with his own hands.

To think of Evan and Sloane walking through those halls, deciding which bottles to sell, made my blood run cold.

“We’re almost there,” Malcolm said, turning the car onto a quiet industrial road.

Large, windowless warehouses lined both sides of the street.

He pulled up to a gray concrete building with a single metal door.

A black SUV was parked in front of the loading dock, its hazard lights blinking.

Malcolm stopped the sedan and turned off the engine.

He reached into his jacket and unclipped his holster, checking his service weapon.

“Wait here,” Malcolm said.

“That vehicle isn’t registered to the warehouse owner.”

My heart began to hammer against my ribs again.

“Who does it belong to?” I asked, my hand on the door handle.