Page 94 of Taken Away

This woman was dismantling him. Aubrey Langford was affecting his whole system in a way no one had since Claire—reaching straight through the walls he’d built out of grief and forcing him to feel a fierce, unyielding hunger that terrified him.

The memory of the Drift Bar kiss flashed behind his eyelids, uninvited. He remembered the feel of her mouth beneath his, the way her carefully constructed façade had shattered for three reckless seconds beneath the glow of the patio lights.

Taking it off felt like a betrayal he wasn’t ready for.

Leaving it on while he lingered in doorways and on balconies, fighting his own unyielding control to get close enough to taste her, felt like its own brand of dishonesty.

Claire would have laughed at this house.

The thought came out of nowhere.

She’d loved old things. Historic hotels. Vine-covered stone walls. Places with stories soaked into the wood.

Aubrey had walked straight to the glass and stared at the view.

Bennett stared into the darkness.

For six years he’d acted like loving Claire and wanting a future were mutually exclusive. Lately, he wasn’t so sure.

Vanessa had never made him question the life he’d built after Claire. Aubrey was tearing straight through it.

“Jesus, Mabel,” Bennett muttered into the quiet, his voice a rough, tired rumble beneath the music. “You really did leave me a mess.”

He lay back on the mattress fully clothed, one arm thrown over his eyes while his fingertips rested lightly on the band pressed against his chest.

He stayed awake for a long time, chest rising and falling in steady swells as he listened to the silence below—listening for creaks, for footsteps, for anything that didn’t belong. For six years, the empty space on the other side of his bed had felt endless.

Tonight, it didn’t.

TWENTY-FOUR

Jackson County Sheriff’s Department

Conference Room

Sheriff Burke Scott stood at the head of the table, a legal pad in front of him. His deputies sat around the room, folders open.

“As of 0600 hours,” Burke said, “the state Medical Examiner has officially reclassified the passing of Mabel Blackwood. We are no longer handling a natural death. We are running an active homicide investigation.”

Silence tightened around the table.

Deputy Scout Wilson let out a low whistle. “Doc Kincaid signed off on natural at the scene. Said her heart quit.”

“Kincaid missed it,” Burke said bluntly, leaning his palms on the table. “ME found petechial hemorrhaging, bruising on the left wrist consistent with restraint, and synthetic fibers in the airway. Someone pinned her down and used a textile—most likely a pillow from her own bed—to suffocate her. They staged the room and walked out the back door.”

He looked from face to face.

“We treated that house like a funeral parlor for three days. Our window for pristine physical evidence is shot. Half the valley has walked through that foyer with casseroles. We start from scratch, and we start now.”

He tapped his pad.

“Scout,” he said to Wilson, “you’re at the winery. Start with Lockwood and the cellar crew. Then sit down with Walter Grady. Walter’s been running those books thirty years; he knows every hand on that property. I want to know exactly who was on the grounds the afternoon before she was found.”

“Copy,” Scout said, jotting it down.

“Sara,” Burke turned to Deputy Parker. “You and Luke are on staff and perimeter. Talk to Savannah and Chloe in the tasting room. See if anyone noticed a customer lingering after closing, or if Mabel seemed off in the weeks leading up to this. Luke, after that, drive out to the lower pastures. Interview Red Stephens at the cattle operation. Ask him about unfamiliar trucks near the ridge access gates over the weekend.”

Luke Hale frowned. “What about the porch prowler Aubrey reported, Sheriff? That footprint?”