Rachel handed it back. “I just had the most completely morbid thought. If they hadn’t dug up that grave, we wouldn’t be sitting here together.”

Alex had thought the same. Many times over the past days she’d thought of how those remains had changed her life. And sometimes as she lay in the dark, she wondered what changes still awaited her.

“Do you think it’s him,” Alex asked softly. “Do you think it’s our… brother?”

Instead of answering, Rachel said, “The grave was in one of our vineyards. One of the Sommer family’s first. We produced a small production of old vine zinfandel called Two Brothers.”

“Two Brothers? For Harlan and Treven?”

“Actually, for the two Sommer brothers who founded the winery. The first Friedrich and Oliver.” Rachel picked up her glass and twirled it. The wine caught the light and Alex found herself mesmerized by it.

“Great wine starts with good fruit. The right amount of sun and water, temperatures that are neither too hot nor too cold. Soil that has just the right combination of minerals.” She laughed. “You see why I don’t have children; every year I give birth.”

Alex smiled. “What happened to the Two Brothers vineyard? Didn’t they find the grave while ripping it up?”

“We had no choice. The vines became infested with phylloxera.” At Alex’s expression, she explained. “It’s a louse that attacks the root of the vine. You don’t know you have a problem until it’s too late.”

Alex frowned, recalling something from a wine tour she had taken years ago. “I thought the phylloxera problem had been solved?”

“Mmm. After nearly totaling California’s wine industry.” She drained her glass. “Now, they graft a phylloxera-resistant root stock to the scion. But these were century-old vines.”

A note of reverence in her tone hinted that ripping up those vines had torn a piece from Rachel’s heart-as if she was physically attached to them.

She’d said it a moment ago: the wines were her babies.

Rachel reached across the table and caught her hand. “But if the vines hadn’t had to be torn out-”

“The grave wouldn’t have been found.”

“Yes. And we may never have seen each other again.” She paused. “Would you like to see it? The vineyard where the body was found? His grave?”

Even as “No” sprang to her lips, she said, “Yes.”

Rachel insisted on paying for their lunch. It occurred to Alex as they buckled into Rachel’s work truck that they’d polished off the entire bottle of wine and that Rachel shouldn’t be driving.

They took Sonoma Highway north to Moon Mountain Road. The road gently snaked upward, and Alex partially lowered her window to let the spring air blow against her face. For all her worries about Rachel’s driving ability, she handled the road with what seemed like effortless expertise.

Twenty minutes later, Rachel eased to the side of the road. They climbed out of the truck and silently crossed into the vineyard, stopping beside an area that had been staked off. It wasn’t a neat, clean hole, the way Alex had imagined it would be. Instead, it had the look of an eruption. As if something violent had taken place here, as if the earth had rejected the tiny body and forced it out. A sort of reverse birthing process.

“Ugly, isn’t it?”

Alex couldn’t find her voice and nodded.

“I think the body… that it was Dylan,” Rachel whispered, answering Alex’s earlier question. “I just do. I guess I feel it here”-she pressed her fist to her stomach-“deep in my gut.”

They fell silent. Alex gazed at the grave, tears welling in her eyes, swamping them. The breeze ruffled her hair and a crow flying overhead screeched.

Her brother. Why couldn’t she remember him? She’d loved him desperately. Even without his memory, she knew it was true.

“I wish I could remember,” Alex whispered.

“I wish I couldn’t,” Rachel said, voice thick. She looked at Alex. “Let’s get out of here.”

Silently, they returned to the truck and climbed in. Alex saw that Rachel was crying and reached across the seat and caught her hand.

Rachel curled her fingers tightly around hers. “No one should have to go through that. No one.”

Alex wasn’t certain whether Rachel was talking about what Dylan had endured-or what she had. In the end, she supposed it didn’t really matter. The pain was the same.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

Rachel looked almost startled at the sound of Alex’s voice. She glanced her way, shook her head. “Nothing was ever the same again.”

Not for any of them, Alex realized. All their lives had been violently, irrevocably altered.

Rachel freed her hand and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Maybe your mother had the right idea. Bury it all. Forget about it.”

Some things couldn’t be buried or forgotten. They made themselves known, coming out twisted and foul.

“No,” Alex said. “It destroyed her.”

“I think it destroyed us all.” Rachel made a face. “I didn’t plan for this to become a sobfest.” She flipped down her visor and peered into the mirror. “Look at me! I’m a mess!”

“Raccoon Woman,” Alex said. She lowered her own visor, peered into the mirror and laughed. “And her sidekick.”

Rachel handed her a tissue and they took a minute to clean themselves up. They rode in silence back into town. Alex had walked to the restaurant, so Rachel dropped her at her rental.

“I’m really glad you’re back, Alex,” Rachel said. “I think you being here is going to help us all heal.”

Tears stung Alex’s eyes. She blinked against them, uncertain what to say. Rachel reached across the seat and squeezed her hand. “I know that’s pretty heavy, but you’re a piece of the puzzle from that time. And you were taken away from us.”

Moments later, Alex watched her stepsister drive off. It was like a puzzle, she thought. But because of the individual frame of reference, everyone’s piece was overlapping but unique. She wondered where hers fit in.

Monday, March 8

6:40 P.M.

Alex spent the rest of the day in downtown Sonoma, introducing herself to some of the old-timers, asking questions and following leads. At the jewelry store Rachel had told her about, the owner had admired her ring and given her the name of an artist who’d been making original wine country-inspired jewelry for forty years. She’d thought it looked like his work.

Alex had decided to wait until the next day to contact him. She was hungry, tired, and needed to process.

As she approached her front door, she heard Margo mewing. Poor baby must be hungry, she thought, unlocking the door. As she opened it, the cat darted out.

“Margo!” Alex scooped her up. But instead of the passive animal she was accustomed to, the cat struggled in her grasp. Alex frowned. “What’s up with you, silly cat?”

Alex tightened her hold and carried Margo into the house. The moment they were inside, the cat leapt out of her arms and darted off.

She shut the door, wrinkling her nose. Maybe the smell was getting to her? It’d definitely grown stronger in the time she’d been out.

Alex flipped on a lamp and looked around, tired and annoyed. What was the deal? She’d eaten only a handful of meals since moving in and had taken the trash out.

She stopped in the center of the living room. Backed-up sewage was a possible answer. Or an animal that had gotten trapped in the attic or walls and died there. Alex followed her nose; the smell grew stronger as she headed to the back of the house.

She stopped outside the bathroom. Margo sat on the throw rug, staring intently at the cabinet located under the sink.

Alex studied the cat. She sat stone still, as if every fiber of her being was focused on that closed cabinet door. The way she did when hunting.