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. Malcolm looked at the license plate through the rain. “It’s registered to Pierce Logistics,” he said. “Sloane’s family business.” Before I could reply, the metal door of the warehouse swung open. A figure in a dark raincoat emerged, carrying a wooden wine crate. Even through the sheet of gray rain, I recognized the profile immediately. It was Sloane. And she wasn’t alone. Another figure stepped out from the shadows of the loading dock, holding a crowbar.