A Winchester, Tennessee Thriller

Chapter Two

NOW

Wednesday, March 11Napa, California

“This one is addressed to you personally.”

Liam glanced up from the monthly reports he’d been poring over. “What was that?”

His assistant peered over her reading glasses. “Please tell me that’s a dating site you’re focused on, because if it’s work, I’m going to be very upset. This is supposed to be a day off for you. You’ve been working seven days a week for months now. You need a life, Liam Hart! And I need at least one afternoon to try organizing this…clutter.” She surveyed the stacks and piles of binders and folders around his office. “You need someone to do your filing.”

Liam closed his laptop before she dared to come around behind him and peek at his screen. “I like my filing system,” he pointed out. “You know as well as I do that a little extra time in the fields goes with the territory after a particularly wet season. All that rain calls for extra attention. We both know there’s always plenty to do in preparation for—”

She gave him a look that stopped him midsentence. Shelly Montrose had kicked aside the idea of retiring at sixty-five, over two years ago. She had worked for this vineyard for most of her life, first as a picker when she was a child, right after the operation was started by the Josephson family. Then as his father’s and now his personal assistant for the past twenty odd years. She was in charge and no one was going to tell her differently.

Certainly not Liam. She knew as much about running this place as he did. Probably more.

“Claire said,” he offered in his most amenable tone, since the last thing in the world he wanted to do was upset his favorite lady, “there were reports I needed to see, so I only came by for a couple of hours and then I’m off. I promise.”

Claire was his younger sister. At only twenty-five she’d already finished college and had proven herself as a master winemaker. She would say that their continued success since their father’s passing was as much Liam’s hard work as her own, but that wasn’t entirely true. Yes, he was out there in the fields working alongside his crew through the process of winemaking, from tending the plants to bottling. But it was Claire who had the creative vision in developing unique blends and tastes that had put them on the map over the past two years. Their father would be proud.

“Claire.” Shelly huffed a breath. “That girl is as bad as you are. She’s never going to find a husband if she doesn’t stay out of this vineyard! Your daddy took time to raise the two of you and the vineyard didn’t go to pot. Your mother is traveling all over Europe and she has repeatedly invited the two of you to join her. Now would be the perfect time for a nice vacation.”

“You’re right, Shelly.” Liam stood and gave her his best smile. “I’m heading out for lunch with a friend right now. The monthly reports be damned.”

Her eyes rounded. “A female friend?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He reached for his cap and tugged it on. “She’s a pretty, blue-eyed girl.”

Shelly rolled her eyes and extended the envelope toward him. “Your sister doesn’t count.”

Liam accepted the letter, tucked it into the hip pocket of his jeans and started around his desk. “I won’t tell her you said that.”

He left the office and walked through the winery. He loved this place. The rustic beams overhead, the decades-old barrels used for aging. The cobblestone floor. This was his life. Deep down he wouldn’t mind having someone to share it with, but that hadn’t happened so far. Maybe it was his fault for being so focused on work. But he loved his job. He couldn’t imagine not doing exactly what he did every day.

Outside, the stunning valley view never ceased to make him pause to take it all in. The trees and the pond, all of it gave him a feeling of home. He’d lived right here on this former chicken farm for as far back as he could remember. His father bought the place from the previous owners who had lost interest in trying to jump-start the business after several years of hard times. Over the decades his father had renovated the place into one of sheer beauty and productivity. The vineyards were gorgeous. But they had never been able to compete with the top winemakers when it came to the wines they created.

Liam’s father had been good, damned good, but not nearly as good as Claire. She was one of a kind. A rare vintner with a special touch.

He climbed into his truck and slid behind the steering wheel. The crinkling of the envelope in his back pocket reminded him that he had mail. He started the truck and reached for the envelope.

As Shelly had said, it wasn’t addressed to the Hart Family Vineyards, but to him. Liam Hart.

No return address on the front or on the back. He frowned, lifted the flap enough to slide his thumb beneath it and to tear it open. Inside was a newspaper, or, at least, part of one. The front page, to be precise. He unfolded the single page and first noted the name of the paper, Winchester Gazette, Winchester, Tennessee. Then he scanned the bold headline at the top of the page.

The Lost Boy—25 Years Later.

His frown deepened. Why would anyone send him a newspaper clipping from Winchester, Tennessee? He checked the postmark. Yep, definitely from Winchester.

To his knowledge he didn’t know anyone in the area. He searched his memory. There was, if he recalled correctly, a winery near Winchester. Though not one he’d ever visited. Rather than beat his head against a brick wall trying to remember, he started to read.

Seven-year-old Andy Clark disappeared on March 1, twenty-five years ago. To date there have been no remains found. No further witnesses came forward with reports of having seen the child. He left school, walking, and was nearly home when he vanished, never to be heard from again.

The article went on about the boy and his devastated family and the endless search.

Liam’s gut tightened. He avoided stories like this. Every time he heard about a missing child on the news, he felt sick. A natural reaction, he supposed. Who wouldn’t get sick at the idea? What kind of person stole a child?

He started to fold the paper and toss it aside, but his gaze landed on the series of photos included with the article.

The beating in his chest lost a step, then suddenly burst into hyper speed.

The photos of the little boy were…

Him.

Not just the chubby-cheeked image of any child, but his particular features, his smile, his eyes, his…attitude.

“No way,” he muttered, his face pinched as he stared at the images.

Okay, this was bizarre. Shaking his head at his foolishness, he backed out of the parking slot and drove across the property, past the pond and the visitors’ deck, to the private residence. Both he and his sister lived in the house. She had the wing that had once been the guest suite while he slept in the room he’d had for as long as he could remember. Suited him just fine. Though he had stored away the sports trophies and award certificates from school. His space was more of a bachelor pad.

A bachelor who still lived in the house where he’d grown up.

“Nothing wrong with that,” he said to his reflection in the rearview mirror.

The newspaper clipping clasped tightly, he climbed out of the truck and walked to the house. He entered the key code and opened the door.

His heart still raced as he strode across the entry hall and toward the family room. His mother had all the family photo albums lined up on shelves. She loved nothing more than showing off her kids. She was actually Liam’s stepmother; his biological mom had died when he was a baby. But Penelope Hart had treated him as much like her own as she had Claire—whom she’d given birth to.

If Penelope were here she would get a kick out of the photos in the newspaper article. He managed a smile at the thought but still…this felt weird. Particularly since someone on the other side of the country had mailed it to him. As far as he knew, he had no friends, relatives or even acquaintances in the area.

This was obviously someone’s idea of a joke.

He spread the newspaper’s front page on the coffee table, then strode to the bookcases built along the wall adjacent to the fireplace. Penelope had carefully dated each album. Finding the one for the proper time frame was easy. He carried the album to the coffee table and sat down on the edge of the couch.

His breath caught in his throat. The resemblance between him and the missing boy was uncanny. Completely bizarre. He removed two photos from the album and placed them next to the images in the newspaper.

“Holy…” Looking at the photos side by side triggered a strong emotion he couldn’t label, which sank deep into his bones.

There had to be an explanation. Maybe he’d been a twin and his parents hadn’t known. The missing child could have been his twin brother. His father had told him that he and his mother had been homeless when he was born. Living in the hills and woods of northern California like a couple of disenfranchised hippies. Who knew what sort of prenatal care she received?

It was possible that there had been two babies.

He moved his head side to side. Even as shaken as he was at the moment, he recognized he was reaching with that scenario.

Leaving the disturbing newspaper where it lay, he walked out of the family room and along the corridor until he came to the office that had been his father’s—the office that was his now. He hit the switch, turning on the lights. The closet had been turned into a built-in safe. Using the dial, he quickly went through the combination steps, lifted the lever and opened it. He located the file with birth certificates and withdrew his. His fingers roamed over the state seal as he considered the information printed on the document. Nothing unusual or unexpected there. Closing the safe, he moved to one of the many file cabinets and looked through the folders until he found the one with his name. Inside was his school vaccination record. His academic reports.

He flipped through page after page.

It was all there. From kindergarten through senior year and then his acceptance papers for the University of California.

What was he doing?

He closed the filing drawer and walked out, turning off the lights as he went. Whoever sent the paper to him had accomplished his mission. The joke was on Liam.

As he left the house, he grabbed the newspaper and the photos of him as a kid. He had to show this to Claire.

His sister was a hell of a mystery buff. Maybe someone would get a laugh out of this.

Angele Restaurant

“I THOUGHT I’d been stood up,” Claire chided as he pulled out a chair at her table.

“Sorry, there was something I had to do.” He reached for his water glass and considered ordering a shot of bourbon. Sweat had beaded on his forehead during the drive here.

It was ridiculous. Heart palpitations and sweating? He was a little freaked out. He had to get a grip.

Maybe Shelly was right. He had been working too hard. He needed a break.

“I’ve already ordered for the both of us. Roasted chicken salad.” She placed one hand atop the other on the table and studied him. “What’s wrong? You look—” she shrugged “—strangely unsettled.”

His sister had Penelope’s eyes. Blue but a light blue, almost gray. Her hair was a darker blond than his, as well, more brown than blond. But the high cheekbones and the Roman nose, she’d gotten both those from their father, just as Liam had.

He pulled the folded newspaper and the two photos from the family album out of his hip pocket and placed them on the table. “Someone mailed this newspaper page to me. No name or return address. Just the front page of this small-town newspaper.” He tapped the now wrinkled page.

While Claire read, Liam surveyed the restaurant. He’d been here a hundred times at least. The rustic French decor was not unlike their home, which Penelope and his father had turned into a classic yet rustic French château. It was warm and relaxing, much like this restaurant. And the food here was the best in Napa. He had yet to order a single dish that was anything less than incredible.

Claire placed the newspaper on the table, folded so that the photos of the boy—Andy Clark—were prominent. Then she laid the two photos of Liam next to them.

“Holy moly,” she whispered. “This is…this is totally cray cray.”

Crazy. Definitely.

“There was no name on the envelope?” she asked though he’d already told her as much.

He shook his head. “No name. No address. But the envelope is postmarked Winchester, Tennessee.”

She stared at the paper again. “Have you ever been to this place?”

“Never.”

“Well.” She refolded the paper and tucked the loose photos inside the fold before passing the tidy bundle to him. “Someone thinks you have.”

He made a sound he’d intended as a laugh, but it came out more like a choking noise. “What does that mean?”

“It means that whoever sent you this newspaper clipping believes you are this boy.”

This notion had been festering in the back of his brain since he opened the damned envelope but he had refused to allow it to fully reach the surface.

“That’s insane.” He shook his head. “How would this person even know who I am or where I live?”

“I don’t know.” Claire’s brow lined the way it did when she was stumped by some issue with a new blend she’d created.

“Hey,” he argued, “come on. We grew up together. You know this is impossible as well as ridiculous.”

She stared at him, unblinking, unflinching. “You were almost eight when I was born. We grew up together after that point.” She glanced at the bundled paper lying next to his water glass.

“Now you’re just being a—”

“No,” she countered, “think about it. This could be real, Liam. Go back to the house and look at the family photo albums again. Try to find any of yourself—at least any in which you can see your face—between being a little baby and seven or eight years old.”

“What?” Now he got it. She had done this. As a prank. Yes, that had to be it. She wanted him to work for the payoff, sending him on a wild-goose chase. “You did this because of what I did on your birthday.” He shook his head, felt a sudden rush of relief. “I told you I was sorry. You didn’t have to go to this extreme.”

When she’d turned twenty-five, he’d put one of those happy birthday ads in the Napa Valley Register announcing that Claire was actually thirty. She had not thought it was funny. She had warned that she would get even with him.

He laughed. Laughed long and hard, almost lost his breath as waves of giddy relief washed over him.

When he’d finished, the people at several tables were staring at them.

“You finished?” she demanded, one eyebrow hiked up.

He held up his hands. “You got me, sis. I have to tell you, I was freaking out.”

“I didn’t do this, Liam.” Her tone was flat and serious.

That chill he’d been fighting since he’d opened that damned envelope seeped into his bones anew.

“Okay.” He suddenly wished he hadn’t told her. Maybe she didn’t have some fake newspaper printed and mailed to him from Winchester, Tennessee, but she was sure taking advantage of the opportunity.

“I even asked Mom once.”

Enough. And yet, he couldn’t not take the bait. “Asked her what?”

“Why there were no pictures of you during kindergarten or when you were three or four. There are hundreds of me, but there’s this big gap in your documented history. I thought it was strange.”

“I can honestly say I’ve never noticed.” Why the hell didn’t the food arrive? Anything to change the subject. Now he didn’t want to talk about it.

“Of course you haven’t. That’s a girl thing. The women maintain the family photos and store keepsakes. Most guys don’t even notice.”

“What did she say?” He really wanted this discussion to end. He should have taken the day off like Shelly said.

“She said the photos and stuff for that time period were lost in a fire.”

“There you go.” He shrugged, felt some measure of relief once more. “That explains it.”

“No, that doesn’t explain anything. Because I asked Joe about the fire and he had no idea what I was talking about.”

“Joe Brown?” Liam held up his hands. “Claire, Joe died when you were thirteen.”

Joe had been the vineyard manager when Liam was growing up. In truth he’d been like an uncle to both him and Claire.

“I asked about the photos when I was twelve. Remember that school project I had to do using family photos? It was that ancestry thing.”

He shrugged again, his frustration building far too rapidly. “Not really.”

“I’m telling you that I asked Mother and she made up a story about a fire in the family room. When I mentioned the fire to Joe, he said there was never a fire in the house. Never, Liam.”

“I’m not talking about this anymore.” He didn’t know what he’d expected Claire to say when he’d shown her the clipping and photos, but once he’d latched on to the prank theory, he’d realized how much he wanted that to be true. Not this…this other possibility.

Thankfully, the food arrived, saving him from having to argue further with Claire. He should have known better than to tell her about this.

When the waiter had moved on, Liam dug in. He hadn’t realized until that moment that he was starving. Hopefully, Claire would take his cue and eat instead of pursuing this ridiculous idea.

Unfortunately, the silence didn’t last long.

“We should call Mom.”

“For the love of God, Claire.” He put his fork down and braced his palms on the table. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. The whole notion is ludicrous. I shouldn’t have shown you the article.”

She reached across the table and snatched up the newspaper, opened it enough to find whatever she was looking for. She tapped the byline beneath the headline. “You need to call this Halle Lane. Maybe she sent the newspaper to you.”

When he didn’t respond, she went further. “Maybe you should do better than call,” she said. “Maybe go to Winchester. Check this out in person.”

He looked at her as if she’d suggested he go to the moon. He now regretted even reading the article, let alone sharing it with her.

“I think you should.” She gave him a nod. “Maybe the visit will trigger a memory of living there.”

He rolled his eyes. “The only thing I remember about being seven is a bicycle accident that gave me a broken arm and a concussion.”

It was the worst memory of his childhood.

But it was real, and his father had been right there with him through the whole thing.

THEN

Twenty-five years ago…

“I’M SCARED AND my head hurts bad. My arm, too.”

His father’s arms tightened around him, pulling him closer to his chest—close enough that he could feel his heart pounding. His father was scared, too.

“You’re going to be fine, son. The doctor says you have a mild concussion. I promise you’ll be better in a few days.”

He closed his eyes tighter and tried to remember why he was so scared. He remembered the headlights coming at him. He remembered falling. For a moment he’d thought he was dead.

Then his father had been there telling him he was okay. Calling an ambulance.

He remembered drifting in and out. He wanted to stay awake but it was so hard. He couldn’t keep his eyes open and going to sleep made the pain go away.

His father wouldn’t let him sleep. He’d wake him up each time he drifted off.

“Stay with me now.”

Lights pulsed in the darkness. Made his head hurt worse. He wanted to go home. He was cold. So cold. His head hurt so bad. And his arm. He couldn’t move it without the pain making him cry harder.

Two men in uniforms suddenly hovered over him in his memory or the dream he was having. It was hard to tell which. They kept telling him he would be okay. They were taking him to the hospital. He would get to ride in the ambulance.

But he didn’t want to go to the hospital.

He wanted to go home.

Why couldn’t he just go home?

He felt his body being moved. Lifted onto a stretcher and then they rolled him to the ambulance.

His father climbed in with him, sat close to him, kept telling him he would be fine.

He only wanted to close his eyes and pretend this didn’t happen. He didn’t want to be in an ambulance. He didn’t want his head and arm to hurt so bad.