“I came to see her painting,” she said softly.

“I’m so sorry.” Treven handed her a glass of red wine, then took the chair opposite hers. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him. Ever since-”

He didn’t finish the thought. It hung in the air between them and she looked at him. “Ever since what?”

“You got here.” His expression softened with regret. “Try the wine. It’ll help. That’s what it does.”

They sipped in silence. The fruits and spice filled her mouth first, followed by the tannins that coated her tongue, the alcohol that warmed her belly. She felt its effect steal blessedly over her.

“Legend has it,” he said softly, “that Ikarios and his daughter Erigone were the first humans to taste wine. Dionysus, the god of wine, shared it with them, then instructed them to make the fruit of the vines known to all. But when Ikarios did, the fellows gulped it down and became drunk.

“Observers, thinking Ikarios had poisoned their friends, beat him to death. When his daughter discovered his body, she hung herself in grief.”

Alex laughed weakly. “That’s a gruesome story, Treven. One I don’t understand why you’re telling me.”

He motioned to her glass. “The history of wine is intertwined with the history of the world. It has been a tumultuous pairing. Wine has soothed the heartbroken, fueled both ecstasy and violence, and incited responsible men to act like idiots.” He paused. “Case in point, my son.”

She appreciated his apology and told him so.

“Not an apology,” Treven corrected. “He’s too damn old for that. An explanation. Perhaps a request for understanding.”

Alex nodded and he went on. “History is populated by tragic stories. Our lives, too.”

He glanced up at her mother’s painting. She followed his gaze. Her mother’s life. Her own. Those who had loved her.

Or been abused by her.

“Who was Mike?” Alex asked. “Clark said he hung himself.”

“A good friend.”

“When did he-”

“He was twenty. Clark found him.”

“My God.”

“Another of his childhood friends is gone, as well. Terry Bianche. Terry battled drug and alcohol addiction. He died in a motorcycle accident.”

Treven held the glass slightly aloft and swirled the liquid, studying it. She sensed he did it from habit. He shifted his gaze to hers.

“I understand Reed spoke to you about your mother’s actions with our sons. I also hear that you’re having a difficult time accepting it. I don’t blame you.”

She flushed, uncertain if he meant he didn’t hold her accountable for her mother’s actions or that he didn’t question her loyalty to her mother.

“Mike was one of the boys. So was Terry. They were sixteen and seventeen at the time.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

He cradled the bowl of the wineglass in his palms. “We handled it all wrong. Everything. I share the blame for that.”

He sighed, the sound heavy. “The boys should have had counseling. She should have been held accountable. But after Dylan…”

Alex looked away.

He laid a hand over hers. “I’m so sorry, Alexandra. None of this was your doing. After all, we can’t help who our parents are.”

Her parents. Mother and father. She turned back to meet his eyes. “Do you know who my father is?”

“I’m sorry.” He released her hand and stood. “I wish I could help you.”

She lifted a shoulder and followed him to his feet. “Someday, I’ll ask someone and get a different answer.”

“I hope so, Alex. I really do.”

Friday, March 12

8:45 P.M.

Alex sat huddled under a blanket on the end of her couch, unable to get warm. After leaving Treven Sommer, she had climbed into her car and driven aimlessly, on roads that wound through picturesque towns, past rolling hills dotted with sleeping vineyards.

Traffic had occasionally slowed to a crawl, then opened back up, with no particular rhythm.

No wonder she was cold, Alex thought. She’d driven with her window down, using the sting of the cold breeze to connect her to the physical while her mind raced with the events of the day.

“We can’t help who our parents are.”

“You want to know what your mother was, Alexandra? You want to know so bad, I’ll show you.”

“Stay away from my sons.”

Alex shivered and huddled deeper into the blanket. Needing reassurance from someone who had known her mother, she had called Rita Welsh at her home, then the library. She learned that Rita had retired and moved to Oregon to be near her grandchildren. They refused to give her a forwarding address or phone number.

She thought again of what Wayne Reed had said to her: “Stay away from my sons.” What would Wayne Reed think if he knew what she and his son had shared?

Maybe he did know. Maybe that was part of the reason he had passed along her mother’s sordid story. And why he had been so hateful to her.

Reed. He hadn’t called, though she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. A part of her wished he had. The part that enjoyed his company-both his character and the mind-blowing sex. But the other part thought it was for the best. Too much history. Too many secrets. His worldview too conventional, hers too unconventional.

History. Secrets. She turned her gaze to the framed photo resting on the table beside her. Her mother holding Dylan, smiling for the camera. Her standing there, beaming up at them both.

She reached for it and gazed at her mother’s image, pain curling through her. What were your secrets? What they’re telling me about you, is it true? Is that why you kept the past hidden from me?

She shifted her attention to other aspects of the photo. It’d been taken at Sommer Winery. The cave entrance, she saw, stood in the background.

She stared at the shadowy opening, her head filling with the memory of her vision from that afternoon. The flames licking at her. The smell of incense. Her very real response: fear and panic.

Alex fisted her fingers, determined not to succumb to either. Her mother hadn’t wanted Alex to remember. But what, specifically? Their lives here? The horrible loss of her baby brother?

Why? In an attempt to shelter Alex from pain? To shield herself from the painful reminders? Because of guilt? Fear?

Alex stopped on the last. Had her mother been afraid? For herself? Or her remaining child?

Her gaze refocused on the photograph, the shadowy cave entrance. Something happened in that cave. To her. Something awful-horrible and frightening.

Something fighting to get out.

Dear God, she thought. Had the terrible thing happened to her? Or had she witnessed it happening to someone else?

Dylan.

Her phone vibrated and she jumped. She answered, voice shaking.

It was Reed. “Hey. I said I’d call.”

She thought back; that morning felt like a lifetime ago. She struggled to remember what he’d said, how they parted. She couldn’t.

“I’m on your front porch. I’ve got a pizza and some beer. If you’re in the mood for some company-”

She was. She tossed aside the blanket, hopped to her feet and hurried to the door. All the reasons why they shouldn’t be together evaporated as she swung the door open. She wanted him. She needed to be with him. Now, this moment.

He stepped inside, nudging the door shut with his hip. “I brought my favorites, Boont Amber Ale and a ‘Works’ pie from the Red Grape.”

Wordlessly, she took the six-pack and set it on the entryway table, then relieved him of the pizza box. She dropped it, then pushed him up against the door.

“Don’t say anything,” she whispered against his mouth. “Just… be with… me.” She tore at his clothes, yanking his shirt over his head, greedily struggling with his belt, fumbling in her hurry.

He lifted her and turned them around so her back was pressed against the door. “Hold on, baby,” he said, then speared into her.