Page 90 of Taken Away

“Upstairs,” Bennett said, pointing a thumb toward the loft. “Direct line of sight to the front door, the back deck, and the hallway to your room.” He stepped a fraction closer, his voice dropping into a low, steady register that made her pulse do dangerous things. “Nobody gets into this house without going through me first, Aubrey. I mean it. You’re safe here.”

Safe. The word felt foreign after a morning of hearing Mabel described as ‘the decedent’ and ‘homicide victim’ and realizing murdered wasn’t just something that happened on the news. It had happened to her aunt. In her house.

Aubrey looked up, meeting his fierce, unyielding gaze. For a week, she had viewed Bennett McCrae as the obstacle—the stubborn vineyard manager standing between her and a clean exit back to Philadelphia.

Standing in his house now, watching him quietly take charge of a situation neither of them wanted, she realized she’d gotten at least one thing wrong.

Bennett McCrae wasn’t the problem.

Right now, he was the only thing that felt steady.

“Thank you, Bennett,” she said softly.

Moose let out another low sigh, stretching on his bed in the corner, effectively anchoring them both in place.

Bennett looked down at the dog, then back up at Aubrey, the tension in his shoulders finally easing into a small, rare smile that reached his eyes.

“Don’t thank me yet, Princess. I still expect you to balance those 2023 casing margins tomorrow morning.”

TWENTY-THREE

Bennett’s House

10:30 P.M.

The guest suite was exactly what Aubrey should have expected from Bennett, yet it still made her feel out of her depth.

Like the rest of the house, the room was a masterclass in minimalist design. A low platform bed draped in charcoal linen sat against a feature wall of rough-sawn cedar. To her right, a massive floor-to-ceiling window overlooked the gorge, showing nothing but black velvet peaks beneath a dusting of cold, distant stars.

She stood beside the bed in soft gray sweatpants and an oversized Philadelphia Eagles T-shirt she’d pulled from her duffel. She felt exposed.

Aubrey walked over to the door leading back to the main hallway. Her fingers hovered over the heavy black iron lever. There was a lock—a sleek deadbolt built into the frame.

She stared at it.

…and a lock on the door if it makes you feel better.

She remembered the hard, protective line of Bennett’s jaw when he’d said it. Closing her eyes, she let her hand drop to her side. She didn’t turn the lock. Locking him out felt wrong—not because she trusted the mountains, but because the thought of being completely sealed away from the only person who understood the weight of today felt infinitely more terrifying.

Climbing into the platform bed, she was struck by how clean and uncomplicated everything felt, a stark contrast to the historic heaviness of the Victorian.

Night swallowed the room.

For a long time, Aubrey lay there, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. In Philadelphia, the night was never truly quiet. There was always the distant hum of the highway, the occasional siren, the rhythmic thud of a neighbor’s bass through an apartment wall. Predictable, mechanical noise she’d learned to tune out.

Here, the silence was absolute. It pressed against the glass like a physical thing.

Then the house began to breathe.

Steel, concrete, and glass settled as the mountain temperature dropped. A sharp crack echoed from the roofline as the structure shifted.

Aubrey’s entire body went rigid. Her heart hammered against her ribs, her breath catching in her throat. She stared at the shadows near the window, her mind flashing to a gloved hand sliding a window latch. To a velvet pillow. To Mabel, trapped in the dark.

From the living room, a familiar tags-rattling sound carried down the hallway. Moose gave a low, relaxed huff from his gray bed, utterly unconcerned.

Aubrey forced herself to exhale, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. Get a grip, Langford, she scolded herself. It’s thermal expansion. You know engineering. It’s physics, not footsteps.

But logic was a poor shield against the raw fact of a homicide investigation.