Not backward, she realized. Sideways. She was pressed against the cave wall, surrounded by the stacked oak barrels. The fingers of lichen brushed against her face and scalp and she pushed at them, a cry rising in her throat.

The smell of incense grew stronger. It burned her nose. She opened her mouth to call out to the group, to call for help. Her head filled instead with a wild thrumming.

She flattened herself against the wall, even as she was dragged into a long, musty tunnel. Her vision narrowed until it consisted of a small, round opening at the end.

The light flickered crazily. Not lights, she realized. Flames dancing around her. Crackling, their bright, hot tentacles reaching out to her. Surrounding her. The howls of creatures, writhing within the fire. Being consumed by it.

One of the creatures grabbed her arm, its bony fingers like claws digging into her skin.

“Miss? Are you all right? Miss?”

A security guard. She blinked, coming fully back into reality. He had a round, pleasant face. He was looking at her with a combination of concern and suspicion. As if she had sprouted horns.

In a way she had.

“Get me out of here,” she managed. “Please.”

Hand on her elbow to guide her, he led her out of the cave. She stepped into the fading sunlight and greedily sucked in the fresh air, as if she had been deprived, suffocating.

What the hell was happening to her?

“I need to sit down.”

He led her to a bench not far from the cave entrance. She sat and lowered her head to her knees, breathing deeply, fear fading and her resolve returning.

She straightened. “How did you find me?”

“Ma’am?”

“Did I scream?”

He looked at her oddly. “No, ma’am.”

“I have claustrophobia,” she lied. “It’s something I’m working on.”

“Can I see you to your vehicle? Get you a glass of water or-”

“No. The tasting room, which way is it?”

By his expression she could tell that in his opinion, wine was the last thing she needed. What he didn’t know was, wine was the last thing on her mind. She meant to get a look at her mother’s painting.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Friday, March 12

5:10 P.M.

Alex arrived in the tasting room at the same time as her group. They rushed the bar en masse, ready to enjoy their prepaid samples.

Alex hung back, gaze going to the large painting behind the bar. Her mother’s work, she would have recognized it anywhere. The swirling use of paint, the lively, rich color.

Only this piece possessed a quality the later ones had lacked: a joie de vivre, a hopefulness. Looking at it made her ache.

“See,” the kindly nurse said, coming up beside her, “you did it.”

Alex didn’t bother correcting her. “How about that?” she said.

The woman followed her gaze. “It’s fetching,” she said. “I wonder who the artist is?”

“Patsy Sommer.”

“A family member?”

“Yes. She was married to Harlan Sommer. His second wife and mother of the child who-”

“Alexandra? This is a surprise.”

Alex turned. Clark Sommer stood behind her, smiling warmly.

She thought of the story Reed had told her, the things his father had said: “Your mother didn’t just fuck our sons. She fucked them up.”

A whisper of unease moved over her. “Hello, Clark. Just playing tourist.”

“Excellent. “He turned to the nurse and smiled. “Clark Sommer. Are you enjoying your visit?”

She gushed that she was. He handed her a business card. “Give this to Cathy at the bar, tell her I said you and your companion should have a taste of our Stone Hill Reserve Cabernet. On me, of course.”

“That was nice of you,” Alex said after her new friend had hurried off.

“Good P.R. and it costs me nothing. There’s an open bottle of it behind the bar and we’re closing in thirty minutes.”

“Okay,” she said, softening her words with a smile, “not nice. Calculating.”

“Could I have a moment? In private?”

“Sure.”

Clark took her arm and steered her out of the tasting room and across the walkway to the museum. Tours had ended and it was deserted.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“The question I was about to ask you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“When I walked up, what were you telling that woman?”

Alex frowned, working to recall. “I was admiring my mother’s painting; she asked who painted it.”

“So you were telling her.”

“Yes. Is there something wrong with that?”

“Let’s make something perfectly clear, your mother is no longer part of this family’s history.”

“You can’t rewrite history, though”-she motioned around them-“I see you’ve tried. There’s not one picture of her or Dylan.”

“Do you blame us? Do you think we want to remember either of them? Or you, for that matter?”

Alex counted to ten before she spoke. Lashing out at him-in anger or hurt-would prove nothing. “You’re entitled to your opinion.”

She started past him; he caught her arm, stopping her. He leaned closer; she smelled wine on his breath and realized he had been drinking.

“Take your hand off me.”

“Your mother,” he said softly, trailing a finger across her cheek, “was a beautiful woman.”

Alex jerked away. “I asked you not to-”

“Exciting. Full of life. You’re just like her, aren’t you?”

She made a move to leave, he grabbed her and pushed her up against the wall. Fear turned the inside of her mouth to ash. She worked to keep him from seeing it.

“Aren’t you just like her?”

Alex wedged her hands between them. “Dammit, Clark! Don’t do something you’ll regret. Let me go!”

“Don’t talk to me about regret.” His mouth tightened. “You think I don’t know how that feels? Or what it’s like to wonder… every day-”

He weaved slightly, as if suddenly off balance. “Mike Acosta killed himself. Did you know that?”

“I don’t know who Mike is.”

“Spanky, we called him. He hung himself.”

Like Max. She searched her memory for a Mike and came up empty.

“Couldn’t take it.” His words slurred slightly. “Terry’s dead, too. How does that feel?”

“I don’t know either of those men. Now, I suggest you-”

“You want to know what your mother was, Alexandra?” His gaze dropped to her mouth, then breasts. “You want to know so bad, I’ll show you.”

His words reverberated through her. Sudden, deep and debilitating panic took her breath. She fought against his grip.

“Let me go,” she cried. “Now!”

“You like to fuck for an audience?”

“No!” she cried. “Let me-”

“Clark!”

He jerked around, so quickly he lost his balance. Treven stood in the doorway, face pinched with fury.

“Dad!” He cleared his throat and steadied himself. “I didn’t… this isn’t-”

“Son, I’m going to give you ten seconds to get the hell out of here. One second more than that, and I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

He meant it, Alex thought. Clark must have thought so, too, because he didn’t hesitate. He slipped off without another word-or glance-for either of them.

Treven crossed to her. “Are you all right, Alexandra?”

She couldn’t find her voice. Tears filled her eyes and she nodded.

“He didn’t hurt you?”

“No,” she managed, voice shaking.

Though, the truth was, he had hurt her. Down deep, a mortal wound she wondered if she would ever fully recover from.

“Come, let’s get you a glass of wine.”

When he steered her toward the tasting room, she resisted. “I don’t want to see anyone right now.”

“They’re all gone,” he murmured. “The winery’s closed.”

He was right. One lone winery worker remained, cleaning the bar area. Treven motioned for him to leave, then pulled two chairs together. “Sit.”

She did and lifted her gaze to her mother’s painting. How could someone as morally corrupt as they said her mother was have created something so beautiful, so full of life and hope?