Chapter 6 - The Shadows of the Vineyard
Three days passed. The rain finally cleared, leaving the Blue Ridge Mountains bathed in crisp, cool early-autumn sunlight.
The vineyard was bustling with activity, but it was far from normal. Teams of state ABC auditors in yellow vests walked through the main barrel rooms, drawing samples from hundreds of French oak casks to test for purity. FBI agents in dark suits moved through the administration building, confiscating hard drives and financial files left behind by Nathan.
Despite the chaos, I worked from dawn until dusk in the fields.
I stripped off the silk and velvet of my past life, returning to my old uniform: worn denim jeans, heavy leather work boots, and a flannel shirt rolled up at the elbows. My hands, once soft from months of being pushed away from the business, were quickly becoming calloused again. I checked the sugar levels in the grapes, inspected the trellis wires, and directed the field crews.
Returning to the dirt was the only thing keeping my mind anchored.
On Thursday afternoon, Marcus Vance walked out to the North Block where I was testing the Brix levels of the Cabernet Sauvignon grapes with a refractometer.
“You’re hard to catch,” Marcus said, stepping carefully over the irrigation lines in his polished shoes. “Your lawyer said I’d find you out here.”
“The grapes don't wait for lawsuits, Mr. Vance,” I said, adjusting the eyepiece of the refractometer. “These vines need three more days of sunshine before we begin the harvest. If the sugar levels drop, forty thousand bottles of reserve wine are ruined.”
Marcus looked around at the endless rows of green vines stretching toward the mountains. “It’s beautiful out here. It’s hard to imagine the poison that was brewing underneath it.”
“The land isn't poisonous,” I replied, looking him in the eye. “Only the people who tried to steal it. Did you find anything in Charlottesville?”
Marcus’s expression sobered. He pulled a manila folder from his leather bag. “The FBI monitored the bank in Charlottesville as you suggested. Yesterday morning, a man matching Harold Vance’s description attempted to access the safety deposit box using a forged passport.”
I stopped working, my heart picking up speed. “Did they catch him?”
“No,” Marcus said frustratingly. “He was smart. He used a decoy—a hired courier who went inside while Harold waited in a stolen sedan across the street. When federal agents moved in on the courier, Harold slammed the gas and vanished into the city traffic. They found the sedan abandoned near the James River two hours later.”
“So he’s still in Virginia,” I said quietly.
“He’s desperate, Claire,” Marcus warned, his tone grave. “His assets are frozen except for whatever cash he has on him. Interpol has closed the airports and sea ports. He has no way out of the country without heavy financing, and he knows you’re the centerpiece of the prosecution’s murder case.”
“I’m not hiding in a hotel room, Mr. Vance,” I said firmly, turning back to the vine to snip a cluster of grapes for testing. “This is my home. I spent three years letting Nathan and Lorraine make me feel terrified in my own house. I won't let Harold Vance do it too.”
“I didn't think you would,” Marcus said, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a small, sleek black device. “That’s why I brought you this. It’s a GPS panic tracker tied directly to my private security team and the local Sheriff’s office. Keep it in your pocket. If you press this button, three armed units will be on this property in less than four minutes.”
I looked at the small device, then looked at Marcus. There was genuine concern in his eyes—not just the professional interest of an insurance investigator protecting an asset, but something personal.
“Thank you, Marcus,” I said, taking the device and sliding it into my pocket. “Why are you still here? Lloyds of London recovered their stolen inventory. Your job is technically finished.”
Marcus looked out over the vines, a faint, thoughtful smile appearing on his face. “Let’s just say I don't like leaving a job half-done, Miss Sterling. And I’ve developed a sudden appreciation for Virginia winemaking.”
That evening, night fell fast over the mountains. The field crews went home at six, leaving the estate silent once again.
I sat in my father’s study, surrounded by stacks of financial records, rebuilding the vineyard’s legitimate distribution network from scratch. I called old buyers in New York, Chicago, and San Francisco—men and women who had dealt with my father for decades. When they heard my voice, when they learned that Arthur Sterling’s daughter was back in control, orders began flooding back in.
By ten o’clock, the house was completely dark except for the desk lamp in the study.
Outside, the wind began to howl through the mountain pass, rattling the old glass windowpanes. A heavy branch scraped against the side of the house with a high-pitched screech.
I stood up, stretched my tired back, and walked to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.
As I reached for the kettle, I froze.
The back kitchen door—the heavy wooden door that led to the stone terrace—was standing open two inches. Cold mountain air was blowing inside, rustling the window curtains.
I knew I had locked that door at eight o’clock.
My hand instinctively slid into my flannel shirt pocket, wrapping around the small black panic tracker Marcus had given me.
I reached for the panic button.
May you like
Before my thumb could press it, a cold, hard metallic barrel pressed firmly against the back of my neck.
“Don't move a muscle, Claire,” a raspy, familiar voice whispered into my ear. “Or I put a bullet through your spine before your heart takes another beat.”
