Chapter 2 - IN THE DARK

The cold seeped into my bones within minutes.

The private reserve was kept at a strict fifty-four degrees. Perfect for preserving fine wine. Lethal for a woman in a thin catering uniform trapped overnight.

I threw my weight against the iron cage. It didn't budge.

"Help!" I screamed.

My voice echoed off the stone walls and died. The walls were two feet thick. The party was two floors up and in the other wing. No one would hear me.

I turned my flashlight back on. My battery was at twelve percent.

I had to find a way out, or I had to find something that would make whoever came back for me let me live.

I went straight to the loose brick Elias had moved.

I pulled it out and reached into the dark cavity. My fingers brushed the cold aluminum of the laptop. I pulled it out.

It was dead. The battery had been drained.

But as I reached deeper into the hole to see if there was a charger, my fingers grazed leather.

I pulled out a small, black notebook.

It was an old cellar log. The kind sommeliers used before everything went digital.

I opened it, shining my fading phone light on the pages.

The handwriting wasn't Elias's. It was tight, precise, aggressive.

I checked the signature at the bottom of the first page.

Vance. The attorney.

Before he was a lawyer, Vance had been the estate's cellar master. Margaret's husband had paid for his law degree.

I flipped through the pages. Most of it was standard inventory. But then, nine years ago, the week of the murder, there was a strange entry.

1982 Château Margaux. Six bottles accessed. Coravin used. Recorked. Wax seals replaced with personal crest.

He hadn't just poisoned one bottle.

He had poisoned six.

He used a Coravin—a needle device that pierces a cork to extract wine without opening the bottle—to inject the poison. Then he replaced the corks and sealed them with his own cufflink crest to keep track of which ones were lethal.

One bottle killed the husband.

Serena forced me to pour out the second.

Where were the other four?

I flipped to the back of the book. Vance had kept a meticulous, horrifying log.

Bottle 1: Delivered to Study. (The murder)

Bottle 2: Stored in Main Cellar. (The one I poured out)

Bottle 3: Gifted to Richard Vale.

Bottle 4: Gifted to Judge Harrison.

My breath caught. Judge Harrison had died of a "sudden heart attack" six years ago, right after ruling in favor of Vale Vineyards in a massive land dispute.

I looked at the final two entries.

Bottle 5: Reserved for Margaret Vale.

Bottle 6: Reserved for Adrian Vale.

He was going to kill them all. He was picking off the family and their enemies one by one, manipulating the estate's ownership.

My phone vibrated in my hand.

Battery at five percent.

I needed to call for help now. I dialed 911.

No service. The thick stone walls blocked the signal.

I frantically scrolled to my contacts, looking for anyone. I clicked Adrian's name. It tried to dial over the estate's Wi-Fi network, which barely reached down here.

It rang once. Twice.

“Clara?” Adrian’s voice crackled through the static.

“Adrian! The wine! Vance poisoned the wine!”

“Clara? Where are you? You’re breaking up.”

“The reserve cage! Lock—”

My phone died. The screen went black.

Total darkness returned.

Then, I heard the heavy cellar door upstairs open. Footsteps coming down the stone stairs. Slow. Deliberate.

But it wasn't Adrian's heavy stride.

It was the sharp, clicking sound of high heels.

A flashlight beam cut through the dark, hitting my face through the iron bars.