Ahead, Kant’s pickup moved at a steady pace. Its steel-blue paint was unmissable in the browns and dusty greens of the road. The area would have been beautiful and lush in summer, Margot thought, but they were in the early weeks of winter and the shrubs and trees had withered into stark, barren angles.

The pickup’s left indicator light flashed, and Margot slowed. On the side of the road was a wooden sign supported by two posts: Gallows Hill Winery. The twisting, silhouetted logo caught the sparse rain and funneled it downward. Beneath, in a smaller font, it read Award-Winning Small-Batch Vintage Wines. Public Storefront.

Margot searched the image of the twisted, dead tree and waited for the flash of emotion she’d felt when she’d glimpsed it on the bottles, but this time it was barely a flicker. The black-rendered branches appeared cold. Grim. And although Margot opened her mind to it, no images came.

She turned into the driveway, following the blue pickup. Trees flanked the path. They would have provided shade in summer, but the bare branches now formed lattices over the sky, slicing it into a thousand jagged pieces of gray.

The storefront appeared to her left as the driveway widened, leading into a parking bay with room for a half dozen cars. The store, built of wood and steel, appeared modern. Wide windows faced the drive. Barrels were stacked around the entrance. A second sign, suspended on two posts, read Public Storefront. The door was closed, though, and the windows were dark; everyone would be at the reception.

They followed the drive as it narrowed and turned in a slow arc. Her small hatchback lurched as it passed over a dip in the road, then rose onto a single-wide bridge passing over a small, slow-moving stream. Margot had just enough time to glimpse clusters of dead leaves and slimy debris catching along the banks, then she was past it and following the pickup as they climbed a hill.

The hill. Gallows Hill.

Barren trees continued to flank the drive. Most of Leafell had appeared flat or with gradual undulations. From what Margot had seen, this might be the only truly significant hill in the region. It wasn’t sharp, but rose steadily. A break in the trees gave her a view of the top. From that angle, it seemed immense.

A hazy glimpse of something man-made—the house—appeared through the drizzling rain. Margot, hungry, desperate, strained forward over her wheel. She had an impression of a broad roof, but then the trees closed back in and smothered her view of the home.