Chapter 16
Sixteen
Devon and Bryson had been out most of the night to help with the final harvest push.
The last blocks needed to be picked before the rain moved in tomorrow, and even at four in the morning, the vineyard crew was working under portable lights.
Devon had kissed her forehead before leaving, made her promise to stay inside with the doors locked, unless she was specifically told otherwise.
She'd promised. And she'd meant it.
But now, the house felt too quiet, too empty, too much like a tomb. She’d texted Devon twice since she’d gotten out of bed—but hadn’t heard anything in response. That didn’t surprise her, considering he was most likely knee deep in dirt, vines, and grapes.
She took a sip of her beverage and grimaced.
Nothing worse than cold tea. Emery stood, dumping it in the sink, and filled the kettle again.
The small domestic task gave her something to focus on besides the fear coiled tight in her chest. She pulled a fresh tea bag from the canister and went through the motions of normalcy while her mind raced in circles.
Someone wanted her dead. Someone who was still out there, still planning, still waiting for the right moment to execute their plan.
The kettle began to whistle softly. Emery lifted it before it could reach full volume, not wanting to wake anyone else in the house —a thought that should have made her chuckle, considering how large the Boone estate was.
Brea and Walter were in what was called the master wing.
Ashley and Hasley were in their wing. Riley had stayed over in Bryson's wing. Her father was down the hall from Devon’s old room, which also had its own hallway—or wing, which consisted of three bedrooms, like all the other wings, except the master.
The house was full of people, but at this hour, Emery felt utterly alone.
She poured the hot water over her tea bag, watching it steep as the water turned amber. Steam rose in lazy curls, and she breathed in the chamomile scent, trying to calm nerves that felt stretched to breaking.
A shadow carrying a light in the vines caught her attention.
Emery set down her mug, her heart rate picking up. She moved toward the back door, peering through the window. The porch was dark. Beyond it, the vineyard stretched away into pre-dawn darkness, the portable work lights visible in the distance like earthbound stars.
Her cell vibrated on the counter. She lifted it and her heart fluttered as a message from Ralph, one of the production workers flashed on her screen.
Ralph: Hey, this is Devon. My phone died. Bryson wants a decent, hot, cup of coffee and you know him when it comes to his brew. I told him I’d get it since I wanted to check on you. Mind meeting me by the edge of the vines with it?
Emery: I’ll be out in five.
She set her phone down, snagged a mug, and set it under the fancy machine before digging through the coffee pods for the blend that Bryson liked.
She’d never met anyone so particular about the flavor and temperature of coffee.
Tapping her fingers on the counter, she waited for the machine to heat up and spit out the brew.
Once it was done, she headed for the back door and pulled it open.
The October air was cold, sharp enough to make her wish she'd grabbed a jacket. She pulled her cardigan tighter, scanning the darkness. A shadow appeared between the rows of neatly aligned grapes.
"Devon, is that you?"
The silhouette stepped into the clearing, the light pointed toward the ground, and an arm raised—waving.
She moved down the deck steps, a travel mug in hand, her bare feet cold against the wood.
"Is everything okay?" she asked, walking across the lawn toward the figure. "Why didn't you answer?"
The light disappeared, and a shadow moved closer. Something in Emery's chest went cold.
Something was wrong.
The build was wrong. The movement was wrong. This wasn't Devon.
She stopped, her body understanding before her brain caught up. The figure was still approaching, faster now.
The travel mug slipped from her fingers, hitting the grass with a dull thud. She spun toward the house, adrenaline spiking through her veins.
Run. She had to run.
Her feet found purchase on the grass, and she launched herself toward the deck, toward the open door and safety and—
Arms closed around her from behind, iron-strong, lifting her off her feet. She opened her mouth to scream, but a hand clamped over it, cutting off the sound before it could form.
She fought. God, she fought. Kicking backward, thrashing, trying to bite the hand over her mouth. Her nails found skin, and she dug in, felt flesh tear beneath her fingernails. The man grunted but didn't let go.
"Stop fighting," a voice growled in her ear. Male, unfamiliar, cold. "Make this easy on yourself."
Easy? Nothing about being dragged backward into the darkness while her heart hammered and terror flooded every nerve was easy.
She kept fighting. Drove her elbow back into his ribs.
He grunted again. His grip loosened just slightly—
Something hard connected with the side of her head.
The world exploded into white light and pain. Her legs went weak, and her vision blurred. She tried to hold onto consciousness, tried to keep fighting, but her body wasn't responding anymore.
"Told you to stop," the voice said, distant now, like it was coming from the end of a long tunnel.
Darkness crept in from the edges of her vision. She could feel herself being carried, could feel the cold morning air on her face, but couldn't move, couldn't scream, couldn't do anything but sink into the blackness that was swallowing her whole.
Her last coherent thought was of Devon. Coming back to find her gone. The open door. The dropped mug on the lawn.
He'd know. He'd know something was wrong.
But would he know in time?
The darkness took her before she could answer.
The vineyard was finally quiet. The last cluster loaded into bins and hauled to the production facility. Dawn was approaching, but the portable lights illuminated the picked rows with harsh brightness, workers moving between them with the tired efficiency of people who'd been at it all night.
Devon pulled off his gloves and shoved them into his back pocket. His shoulders ached, and all he wanted was to get back to the main house and climb into bed with Emery for a few hours of sleep before the day really started.
Bryson appeared from the next row over, looking equally exhausted. "That's the last of it. Thank God."
"We’ve only finished harvesting," Devon said. “The work’s really just beginning.”
"Don't remind me." Bryson fell into step beside him as they headed toward the path that would take them back to the main house. Bryson stretched his arms overhead, his back cracking audibly. "I’m going to finally do it."
"Do what?"
"Propose to Riley."
Devon stopped walking. “Why have you waited this long? We could all use some positivity around here.”
“I could name a dozen reasons, but the biggest one is everything that’s going on with Emery. It just doesn’t feel right with this crap hanging over her head.”
“She’s not your girlfriend—she’s mine—so that’s a dumb reason.”
"I bet if the tables were turned, you’d do the same thing." Bryson nudged Devon's shoulder. "You're good together. I'm glad you finally found someone who makes you stupid happy.”
Devon felt warmth spread through his chest despite the exhaustion. "She does."
"I can tell. You smile more. Stress less." Bryson paused. "Well, you did until someone started trying to kill her. But before that, you were downright pleasant to be around."
"I'm always pleasant."
"You're tolerable. There's a difference."
They walked in silence for a few minutes, boots sinking into the dirt, the vineyard slowly giving way to the manicured lawn as they approached the main house. The sky was lightening at the edges, stars fading into pre-dawn gray.
Devon's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, expecting maybe a text from his dad asking about harvest numbers.
Instead, he had an email. From Emery. It was strange. Texting was their standard form of communication unless it was work-related.
Except it wasn't her Stone Bridge email address. It was a Gmail account he didn't recognize.
His steps slowed. Bryson walked a few paces ahead before realizing Devon had stopped.
"What's wrong?" Byson asked.
Devon opened the email, his stomach already tightening. Something was off.
Devon,
I need time and space. All this talk about me possibly being David's daughter is too much.
And with everything else going on—the attacks, the danger—I don't want to put anyone else at risk.
I need to get away for a while and figure things out.
Coming back to Stone Bridge might not have been the right decision.
Please don't reach out. I'll be in touch when I've had some time to think.
I'm sorry.
Emery
Devon read it twice, his heart rate picking up with each word. Then he looked at Bryson, who'd walked back to stand beside him.
"What?" Bryson asked.
Devon handed him the phone silently.
Bryson read, his expression darkening. "This doesn't sound like her. She wouldn’t just leave. Not with her father here. Not with everything that’s going on.”
"It's not her." Devon's voice was flat, certain. "She wouldn't—" He took off running. His gaze focused on getting to Emery. Everything else was just a blur.
Bryson was right behind him, both of them sprinting across the lawn toward the main house. Devon's lungs burned, his legs pumping, the distance that had seemed so short a moment ago now stretched impossibly long.
The back door stood open.
Devon's heart stopped. It had been locked when he left. She'd promised to stay inside, to keep everything secured.
He took the deck steps two at a time and burst through the door into the kitchen.
The kettle was on the stove. Everything looked normal, undisturbed.
Except for the open door.