She cried out, digging her nails into his back, arching and bucking against him. Waves of pleasure washed over her, mingling with the events of the day. Stay away from my sons… you want to know, Alexandra… she hung herself in grief…

Flames licking at her. The smell of incense. The howling of creatures.

Alex fought the memory. She tightened her legs around Reed’s waist. No… no… I want this…

Crouching down, surrounded by underbrush, shrubbery. Hiding. The voice. The angry words she can’t make quite out-

But then she does. They ring clearly in her head. Clark’s words. Clark’s voice.

“You want to know so bad. I’ll show you.”

A cry spilled past her lips. She realized she was crying.

“Alex? My God, are you all right?”

She blinked. Reed was breathing heavily, looking at her strangely. He’d stopped, his body already cooling.

“Did I hurt you? Sweetheart-”

“No.” She began to tremble and rested her forehead against his. “Hold me. Please, just hold me.”

He carried her to the living room; together they curled up under the blanket. For a long time, they lay like that, neither speaking. Clark’s words replayed in her head. Words he had spoken today. In anger. In an implied threat.

Were they words from the past as well? Dear God, what was happening to her? Alex wondered. Was she jumbling together the past and the present? Or was she descending into mental illness?

“You ready to talk about it?” he asked quietly.

What could she tell him? If she shared everything, would he take her seriously-or think she was unstable, just like her mother had been?

Nothing she’d done since meeting him indicated otherwise.

Reed’s stomach growled loudly. Saved, she thought, and tipped her face up to his. “Your pizza,” she said. “I forgot all about it.”

“Me, too.” His stomach grumbled again.

“Liar.” She eased out from under the blanket. “I’ll reheat it.”

“Don’t bother.” He caught her hand. “You ready to talk about it?”

“Can I have a little more time?”

He smiled lazily up at her. “They’re your secrets. Take all the time you need.”

A short while later, they sat on the floor eating the cold pizza and sipping on the warm beer. She’d slipped into his shirt; him his jeans.

“Good pizza,” she murmured, reaching for a second slice.

“The best.” He popped open another brew. “I had an interesting day. Max Cragan’s house burned down.”

“What?”

“Somebody torched it.”

Flames. Surrounding her. The tentacles reaching for her, licking at her flesh.

“What’s wrong?”

She blinked. It crossed her mind that she was glad they had been together. “Nothing. It’s just so… shocking.”

He frowned. “And that’s it?”

“Yes… who would do that? It’s so cruel.”

“Cruel,” he repeated. “That’s an odd way to think about it.”

Alex looked at him. “Because of Angie. She must be devastated. Losing all those… memories.”

“She was.” He fell silent a moment. “I spoke with Cragan’s primary care physician today. He couldn’t completely rule out Max being strong enough to hang himself that way, but doubted it.”

“He was murdered,” she said softly. “And his home burned down. My God.”

“The Coroner established Cragan’s time of death as between eight thirty and ten thirty P.M. You spoke with him during that time.”

“Yes. He called me around nine. I showed you my cell’s call register.”

“That you did.” He watched steadily. “Where were you that night, Alex?”

“Home. I told you that.”

“Alone?”

She flushed. “Yes, alone. All night.”

“No calls other than Cragan’s? No visitors?” She shook her head. “Didn’t run an errand?”

“No.” She frowned. “I’m confused. Why is this important?”

“You may have been the last one to speak to Max.”

“Not the last. He hung up with me to go to the door. I heard the bell ring.”

“So you say.”

She made a sound of disbelief. “I showed you my call log. I told you what happened. We made an appointment to speak the next morning. He said someone was at his door and hung up. He thought it was Angie.”

“It wasn’t.”

“It could have been anyone.”

“Yes,” he said softly, “it could have.”

She realized what he was saying and stiffened. “Why would I hurt Max? I hardly knew him!”

“I didn’t say you did, Alex. Just doing my job.”

“Were you just doing your job a half hour ago? When you were fucking me?” She scrambled to her feet, bringing the blanket with her. She stripped off his shirt and threw it at him. “Get out.”

“Alex-”

“I felt safe with you. Until now.”

“Don’t you see, you’re at the center of it all? Everything that’s happened leads back to you.”

“Not everything. In case you’ve already forgotten, I had an alibi for last night. I was in bed with you. Helping you do your job.”

“Alex, you could be in-”

“Get out,” she said again. “Whatever was going on between us is over, Detective.”

Saturday, March 13

8:00 A.M.

Alex had slept little. She’d tossed and turned, tormented by the events of the previous day-and each day since she had arrived in Sonoma.

And she couldn’t let go of the way Reed had hurt her. She had been on the verge of laying herself bare to him.

As the dark hours ticked past one thing had become brutally clear: she was on her own.

But she wasn’t about to run and hide, the way her mother had. She would face this head-on.

Something terrifying had happened to her, something fighting to be remembered. Dylan had been abducted and most likely murdered. Also murdered, a man with a tattooed image of vines and a snake on the bottom of his foot. Now, Max Cragan was dead. His home burned to the ground.

Why kill Max? Why burn his home to the ground? Each time Alex wondered, she became more certain of the answer: the record of Max’s design creations. And who had commissioned them.

The secrets of the vines and snake.

She was part of those secrets. At the center of everything that was happening. Just as Reed had said. All her life, her dreams had been nudging her, reminding her she had a brother whom she had loved. And lost.

Tim had called it avoidant coping. Memory loss that occurred after a traumatic, life-threatening event. An event so terrible or terrifying, the brain worked to hide it.

But the memory was still there, fighting to get out.

It’d come close twice. Both times, in a wine cave.

Whatever happened to her had happened in that cave.

Alex meant to find out what. The Sommer Winery began tours at 9:00 A.M. and she intended to be in the first group.

At 8:50 A.M., Alex parked her Prius in the winery lot. She saw that a number of other groups had already arrived. A good thing. She’d hoped to be able to blend in. She flipped down her visor to get a last look at herself in the mirror. She wore a baseball cap and dark glasses. She had pulled her hair into a ponytail that stuck out the back of the cap.

She didn’t want the tour guide, if it happened to be the same one as the other day, to immediately recognize her.

And she certainly didn’t want to run into Clark, or any of the other Sommers. To facilitate that, she meant to stay as far away from the tasting room as possible.

Alex bought her ticket and waited in the museum, this time only pretending to study the photographs. When the guide arrived, she was grateful to see it was a different woman.

“Come on then,” the guide said, “let’s begin at the beginning, with the grapes.”

Alex followed the group, hanging back, pretending rapt attention as the woman described the collection and sorting procedure. Instead, what rang in her head was the rapidly increasing beat of her heart. The sound of her own shallow breathing. She wiped her damp palms against the sides of her thighs, acknowledging her anxiety. Determined to roll with it.