Rita looked surprised. “She couldn’t forgive him. He insisted they go out that night. He promised her you and Dylan would be fine with Rachel.”

This time, Alex knew, she was the one who looked surprised. Which was it? she wondered. Guilt or anger?

Her phone vibrated; she saw it was Reed, excused herself and answered.

“I spoke with Harlan,” he said. “He can meet with us this afternoon, after the winery closes at four. I’ll pick you up.”

“Where?”

“Sonoma town square. In front of the girl & the fig.”

She ended the call and found the librarian staring at her hand, her expression odd. “What?” she asked.

“Your ring. It was your mother’s, wasn’t it?”

“It was.” Alex glanced at it, then back at Rita. “Do you happen to know where she got it?”

“I don’t know. Sorry.”

An awkward silence fell between them and Alex sensed that Rita wasn’t telling the truth. She leaned toward her. “Was my mother happy, Rita? Before Dylan disappeared?”

“Yes. Very happy.”

“Did she suffer from depression or any other emotional disorder? Anything like that?”

“Patsy? Goodness, not that I ever saw.” Rita shook her head, as if for emphasis. “She was down sometimes, like we all are. But nothing that seemed… clinical.”

“How old was I when she became pregnant with my brother?”

“Three, three and a half.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m sorry, but I’ve already been away from my desk too long.”

She stood. Alex followed her to her feet. “Thank you so much for taking the time to talk to me, Rita. My mother didn’t talk about the past.”

“Too painful, I suppose.” She sighed. “People change as they age. Especially when they’ve suffered horrible losses. Come, I’ll get you set up with the microfilm.”

They exited the break room. The readers’ film files were located on the far north wall. Rita quickly loaded the “Press Democrat” reels for her, then gave her a hug. “I’m so glad you came in today. I’ve thought of you and your mother so often over the years. If you want to talk again, just call me. Here or at home, anytime.”

She jotted her name and number on a slip of paper and handed it to Alex. “Anytime,” she repeated.

Alex thanked her again, then, thinking of a last question, stopped her at the door. “Harlan Sommer’s first marriage, when did they divorce?”

“They didn’t,” she said softly. “She died in a tragic accident at the winery.”

Friday, February 19

2:50 P.M.

Hours later, eyes burning and head throbbing, Alex still sat at the microfilm reader. She had begun her search with Dylan from his birth and christening to his abduction. Story after story repeated the same facts: he had been stolen from his bed; the expected ransom note that never came, the family’s despair and public pleas for his safe return.

The stories had been devastating to read. The accompanying photographs had broken her heart.

When she simply couldn’t take any more, Alex had turned her attention to Harlan’s first wife, Susan. The accident that killed her had been both tragic and gruesome. During a process called punching down, she had been overcome by the fermenting wine’s high CO₂ content, tumbled into the tank and drowned.

She hadn’t been wearing the safety harness required by CALOSHA of all persons working on the catwalks above the tanks. Her brother-in-law and another winery worker had seen it happen and rushed to save her, but it was too late.

Exactly nine months after that had come the first local news blip about her mother and Harlan.

Alex sat back and rubbed her temple. It seemed odd to her. Nine months seemed a short time to mourn a wife and the mother of your child. How could the man suddenly appear, all smiles, with her mother on his arm?

Alex backtracked. Read the gossip columns and society news, looking for a hint of marital problems between Harlan and Susan. Even the whiff of a rumor of an affair. She found none. Indeed, in each of the published photos they looked happy.

A happy family. The way the photos with her mother all looked.

The Sommer family’s story read like a script for a made-for-TV tearjerker. They had suffered so much tragedy, it was as if a dark cloud hung over them, beginning with Harlan’s father’s generation. Accidents. Unexpected deaths. Broken marriages.

A kidnapped child.

Alex realized she was trembling. She glanced at her watch, shocked to realize how late it was. She collected the copies she had purchased, a stack over an inch thick, and stood.

What did it all mean? she wondered, sliding the copies into her tote. Nothing? Everything? Was this why her mother had stripped these years from their lives? To outrun the cloud of tragedy?

But she hadn’t outrun it, had she? She had dragged it along with her.

Alex hurried toward the exit. As she passed the information desk, she glanced that way. Rita was on the phone. When she saw Alex’s glance, she quickly turned away, as if she didn’t want Alex to see her.

Frowning at the thought, Alex stepped out into the brilliant day, squinting against the light. She rummaged for her sunglasses, found them and slipped them on.

Guided by her GPS, Alex made it to the Sonoma town square and the girl & the fig-wolfing down a sandwich on the way-arriving only a few minutes late.

Reed was waiting for her, leaning against the front fender of his vehicle, arms folded across his chest, face lifted slightly to the sun. He might’ve been sleeping. Cat quiet, she thought. Absolutely still with the ability to pounce without warning.

The sunlight caught the gold and red highlights in his chestnut-colored hair and she was suddenly struck by how ruggedly good-looking he was. She wondered how she had missed that before.

Alex parked beside him and climbed out. “Sorry. I lost track of time.”

“No problem.” He straightened. “Sightseeing?”

“Researching. Would you believe, I met someone who was a good friend of my mother’s?”

“Yeah, I would. It’s a small world around here.” They both climbed into his car. “Who?” he asked, after they had buckled their seat belts.

“Rita Welsh. A librarian at the main branch.”

He backed out of the spot. “Learn anything interesting?”

“Several things. She said my mother was happy. And that Harlan doted on me.”

“He did.” Reed flashed her a smile. “But you were pretty darn adorable.”

She felt herself flush, but didn’t know if it was his smile or the comment that caused it. “She didn’t know who my father was. Mom was very secretive. She met him at a Robert Mondavi party. She worked there, in the tasting room.”

“Why so secretive, do you think?”

“My guess, he was married. Maybe in the public eye as well.”

“A classic story,” he murmured.

She angled in her seat so she could clearly see his face. “Rita told me that Harlan’s first wife died in an accident.”

“That’s true.”

When he didn’t offer anything else, she frowned. “She drowned in a wine vat.”

“Asphyxiated, yes. What are you getting at, Alex?”

Did she just come out with it? Tell him she wondered if Harlan Sommer was her dad? Or mention the fact the man had gone from “happily married” to madly in love with her mother pretty damn quickly?

Instead, she shrugged. “It seems the Sommer family’s had more than their share of tragedy.”

He looked at her oddly. “They have. But I don’t think I’d bring that up when you meet them.”

“I’m not a complete idiot.”

“I don’t think you are, Alex. Far from it.”

They fell silent. She gazed out the window. Under different circumstances, she would have marveled at the natural beauty before her. The eucalyptus, madrone and oak trees. Rolling hills of dormant vineyards. The narrow, serpentine road, spiraling upward.