Page 75 of Blurred Lines

Flora, if I told you about the treasure, your pride and anger would keep you from finding it. I trusted Emily would lead the both of you here. In the vault of The Continental Bank, under a trust that bears our name, lies an account. Its contents are enough to save our vineyard, to ensure that you, my daughters, can continue our legacy without fear or want. This is my legacy to you, not as a tether, but as wings. Ask Uncle Clevens. Be discreet.

"My God," I say, eyes wide as saucers.

"We should be able to buy out AgriCorp," Flora says, her eyes gleaming. She turns her attention on me. "But all this can come later, Em, first I need to talk to you about the pictures. Listen. I have dirt. You have to come to the vineyards with me. I've got my best boys hot on the scent of Verona and Alec."

33

EMILY

The vineyard shimmers under the afternoon sun, the air heavy with the sweet scent of crushed grapes. Beside me, Flora's face is a picture of fierce determination.

"I've got it," she whispers, a grimy smudge on her cheek. "Take a look."

My heart leaps as she holds out a plastic baggie, a clump of dirt cradled inside. Not just any dirt—a shade too dark and with an unmistakable chemical tang.

"Someone's been messing with the soil," she explains, her voice brimming with barely contained excitement. "Right around the drainage pipes, see? This could explain the root damage."

My mind races. Drainage sabotage at the heart of our family vineyard? It's the confirmation we've been desperate for, a lead in the shadowy dance I've been caught in with Alec and Verona.

Miles and Brody, our makeshift detective squad, huddle closer. Tensions run high as they tell me about the security cameras they installed, and what they found. There was the blurry silhouette of a figure tampering with the drainage system in the dead of night.

"We had to track down this creep," Miles growls, his knuckles whitening as he clenches his fists. "Whoever they were, they were working for someone … someone powerful enough to pull these strings."

We exchange glances, the name unspoken but hanging heavy in the air—Verona.

"We tailed this guy on the fourth night," Brody says, a steely edge to his voice. "And boy was it one hot ride."

Flora nods proudly. "You were in NYC at the time. We followed the faintest of trails—scuffed shoe prints, a crumpled energy drink can—it was a desperate chase through the winding backroads of the estate. I almost gave up, and then finally …"

Miles chimes in. "We spotted him; a hunched figure vanishing into a tangle of old oaks. He was surprisingly fast, fueled by panic, but we were relentless, gaining on him with every stride. The man's downfall came with a stumble, bless his heart. He went down like a baby refusing bedtime."

"Come on," Flora nudges me, pointing to the vineyard manager's office. "In there."

I'm so nonplussed I still haven't found the right words, so I tail behind the team. There, in the office, sits a scraggly boy, his face gaunt with fear. "I swear I didn't do anything on my own," he says as soon as he sees us. "Please, please don't put me in jail."

"Alright, punk," Miles booms. "Start talking and maybe we'll be lenient. Who do you work for? And why are you destroying this family's land?"

To my shock, the man crumbles instantly. Tears streak his dirt-covered face as he blubbers, "I-I'll tell you everything! AgriCorp hired me, but I was working for one of their shareholders. It's her—Verona Martin … she paid me! She's the one behind it all!"

My stomach clenches. We knew it, but hearing it confirmed is a big, big vindication. "Can you prove it?" Flora asks.

"Yes, I have the paper trail of her payments," he says immediately. "I can call her here too," he continues, blubbering as he speaks. "I can say I'm at the office of the vineyard manager, and I'm alone."

"Why would she come to help you?" I ask scornfully.

"I—"

"It's worth a shot," Flora says, although she sounds doubtful. "Go on, then. And make sure to threaten her. She'll come if it means she needs to finish you off."

"But I?—"

"Don't worry about it," she snaps. "No one is going to kill you."

The boy types a message with trembling hands. Then, we wait. An hour goes by.

Suddenly, Brody hisses, "Heads up!" Footsteps crunch through the dry leaves as reinforcements arrive. Two burly men in mirrored sunglasses—Verona's goons.

"We'll take it from here, boys," one of them grunts, reaching for the sniveling intruder.

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