Before The Music And Wine

The locals always said the soil of the Valley didn't just grow grapes; it buried secrets.

In the dead of night, weeks before the annual Autumn Harvest, the vines look like twisted, reaching fingers under the fog. If you stand perfectly still in the cellar of the estate, you can hear the faint, rhythmic drip... drip... drip of the new vintage fermenting in the oak barrels.

But last night, the stain on the cellar floor wasn't wine. It was too bright. Too thick.

Before the grand gates open, before the festival music plays, and before the first glass of the prize vintage is poured for the elite, someone has to clean up the mess. Someone has to ensure the dead stay buried. And Julian-with his hands stained dark and his eyes colder than the winter frost-is standing over the shatter of glass, looking at the one piece of evidence the killer left behind.

A piece of evidence that belongs entirely to her.