A long pause followed. “I give out my card all the time, Ranger Bragg. I’m in the restaurant development business and that’s the nature of the beast. Anyone could have copied it.”

He sat back, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the cityscape. “I’m going to need the names of the people you were in that meeting with.”

“I will help you in any way. Whatever you need. But like I said, I’ve never laid eyes on Sara Wentworth.”

Bragg scrawled the names of several key individuals in Corwin’s meeting, thanked the man, and hung up. Whatever doubts he’d had about Sara’s death had now been satisfied. She’d been murdered.

This would be Greer’s last night volunteering at the Crisis Center for at least six weeks. Soon the harvest would bring long hours in the fields cutting the grapes from the vines and preparing them for transport. She tried to work the phones once during harvest season. It had been nine years ago, and she’d been so exhausted when she’d sat at the phones, she’d fallen asleep.

Therefore, she’d understood even crazed workaholics had limits. Even they needed to throttle back and accept some things had to be let go.

She shifted the gears of her truck and pulled on to Rural Route 71. Thirty more minutes and she’d be in Austin sitting in her gray cubicle with a fresh cup of coffee in her hand.

The cooling breeze blew in her cracked window and teased the loose strands of hair framing her face. As much as she wanted to relax, her fingers gripped the wheel tighter and she sat a little straighter. Driving at night or close to dusk still made her nervous even after all this time.

Absently, she tugged on her seat belt to ensure it was locked. And though it would be nice to listen to the radio, this late in the day she didn’t allow the distraction.

In the distance, headlights appeared. She sat straighter, gripped the wheel even tighter, and watched with a careful eye as the car approached. The car drew closer and closer. And only when it passed her by did she release the breath she held.

A half hour later, Greer arrived at the Crisis Center minutes before eight. She’d been volunteering at the Crisis Center for ten years and though there were times when she toyed with letting it go, she never could because once in a while she got someone on the phone who truly needed a kind ear to help them through a dark moment.

“Hey, Danni,” Greer said.

Danni had dark short hair and favored black and silver jewelry. She was barely twenty but had been working the night-shift desk at the center for six months. During the day the kid went to school at UT majoring in art. She also picked up a waitress shift and sometimes worked for a local photographer.

Beaded bracelets jangled when Danni raised her hand in greeting. “Greer. Have a phone with your name on it.”

“Have there been a lot of calls?” This time of year the lines were generally quiet. The holidays, chockful of family gatherings, celebrations, and events intended to be happy, often triggered a crisis.

“The early shifts handled calls from lonely people who needed someone to talk to.”

Greer dropped her purse to the floor and took the seat across from Danni. “Good. I could use a slow night. No crisis.”

Danni leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “You’re coming into grape time, aren’t you?”

“I was testing them today as a matter of fact. Just about sweet enough. We’re about two weeks out from harvest time.”

Danni leaned back in her chair. “You should have taken a pass on your shift tonight. I would have covered for you.”

“I thought about it a couple of times. But it’s good for me to get off the property and connect with people. I spend too much time with the grapes.”

Danni laughed. “As long as they don’t talk to you.”

“That’s a bad thing?” Greer teased, grinning.

“Well,” she said, pretending to think, “I guess it depends on what the grapes are saying.”

Greer shook her head. “If any grape talks to me, no matter how sweet the words, I’m in trouble.”

Danni laughed. Her console phone rang and she leaned forward in her chair. “When the grapes talk it is not a good day.”

“Exactly.”

Danni reached for the phone receiver as Greer moved to her simple gray cubicle. “I’ll be at my station.”

“By the way, you’re still welcome to work the harvest. You’d mentioned making a little extra money and we are a little shorthanded this season.”

“I’m in. Always looking to make an extra buck.”

“I’m training a new farmhand this week, so if you can come out I can double up the training.”

“Name the day.”

“I’ll text you tomorrow.”

Greer’s station was stocked with one phone that could accommodate up to six lines. She spoke to one crisis client at a time but there’d been times when she’d believed her caller was in real trouble, had to make an excuse, put the caller on hold, and called 911 for a trace. Emergency personnel were dispatched to the caller’s location. Most nights weren’t that dramatic. She usually extended a sympathetic ear. Many of her callers weren’t in real trouble as much as they were lonely.

She set her backpack on the desk. She always brought work from the office, knowing some nights no one called. During those times she balanced accounts, outlined harvest schedules, or updated personnel files. The vineyard could be jealous and required she fill every pocket of spare time.

She rarely questioned her long hours, which initially had been her salvation. But tonight when she looked at her backpack crammed full of ledgers, resentment flared. She had the life she wanted. Loved her vineyard. Was excited about the winery. And yet she heard the faintest whispers of loneliness.

Most nights she was too exhausted to notice that she climbed into bed alone. Most nights all she wanted to do was sleep and not dream. But most nights weren’t all nights.

Her mind turned to Bragg and again she wondered what it would be like to touch him, to kiss him. With him in her bed, the nights would never be boring. And she doubted she’d get much sleep. Color warmed her cheeks as she thought about his naked body pressed against hers.

When she realized that Danni hadn’t sent the call her way, she reached in her knapsack and pulled out a stack of technical articles on winemaking that she’d need to read. She wasn’t sure how long she sat in the silence combing through the articles. Her aunt had always joked Greer filled every second of every day, and Greer had always countered that time was the ultimate resource. It wasn’t limitless. Once it was gone, game over.

When her phone rang, she pulled off her reading glasses, cleared her throat, and on the third ring picked up the phone. “Crisis Center, this is Greer.”

They had a script to follow and protocols to adhere to in all situations. She wasn’t a licensed counselor and if the caller sounded to be in real trouble, she signaled Danni to contact the doctor on call.

“Greer, is that you?” The woman’s voice was soft, insistent.

Her fingers tightened around the phone. Occasionally a caller would ask for her by name but not often and it always unhinged her a little. “Yes, this is Greer.”

“Good. Good. I was hoping you’d answer the phone tonight. You’ve not been at the call center for days.”

She sat straighter. She always kept a clear line between her personal life and the work she did here. “Who am I talking to?”

A hesitation. “You don’t recognize my voice?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t.”

A heavy silence drifted through the line.

Greer shifted in her seat. “Who is this?”

“You should know.” Her voice had an eerily smooth quality.

She began to doodle squares on her pad. “I’m sorry. It’s late. Tell me.”

“I’m not going to tell you,” she teased. “You have to guess.”

She rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. “I’m here to talk if you need help, but I’m not here to play games. Do you want to talk to me about something?”