The rain beat against the windshield, blurring the second figure.

It was Cole Brantley, his face pale under the brim of a wet baseball cap.

Behind them, Evan stepped into the light of the loading dock, shaking water from his sleeve.

“Stay in the car, Claire,” Malcolm said, his voice flat.

He opened his door and stepped out into the downpour.

I did not listen.

I pushed my door open, the damp, cold air hitting my face immediately.

The smell of wet asphalt and diesel exhaust filled my nose.

“Sheriff’s department,” Malcolm called out, his hand resting on his service weapon.

“Step away from the vehicle and drop the crate.”

Sloane froze, her fingers slipping on the rough wood of the wine box.

The crate dropped with a heavy, hollow thud against the concrete dock.

A sharp crack echoed as one of the bottles inside shattered, releasing the rich, dark scent of fermented grapes.

Evan spun around, his eyes widening as they locked onto me.

“Claire,” he stammered, his face losing all color in the harsh halogen glare of the dock.

“What are you doing here?”