“You were in Prescott’s wine cellar? Without me?” His voice rose and he looked as upset as I knew he would be.

“Shh. Someone will hear you.”

“No wonder you didn’t answer my texts.”

“I would have if I could have, but I didn’t get them. There’s almost no service down there.” I reached into my pocket for my phone. “Damn. My phone. It’s gone.”

“Did you leave it in the wine cellar?”

I nodded. “It probably fell out when I pulled it out to try to text you. Prescott’s still down there. I need to go back and get it.”

“I’m coming with you.” He set down the coffee mug on a nearby table and followed me out of the room. “Let’s get it and then we can say our good-byes. Although I don’t know what happened to the family. They all seem to have disappeared.”

“It’s a big house. Come on; let’s do this before Prescott leaves the wine cellar. Though I did happen to notice the code he used to open the door.”

There was no one in the long art-filled corridor except two waitresses collecting empty plates and glasses from rooms wherever people had left them as Quinn and I hurried back to the elevator. It was still waiting on the main floor, but the strong scent of perfume had dissipated.

“Can you imagine living in a place like this?” Quinn asked as the carriage gave a slight jolt and we started down to the basement. “Of course it won’t be the Averys’ home once Prescott is gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“I spent some time with Grant while you were downstairs with Prescott. He wasn’t shy about discussing the family financial situation. One too many caipirinhas, I think.” We stepped out of the elevator. “Which way? This looks like a maze.”

“Straight ahead. Don’t worry; I’ll know if we’re going in the right direction because of the art on the walls and whether we pass the dungeon. What did Grant say?”

“Dungeon?”

“Yep. What about Grant?”

Grant Lowry was the Washington Tribune’s managing editor. My friend Kit Noland thought he walked on water. He was what she called an old-school journalist—tough, demanding, rolled-up shirtsleeves, unbuttoned top collar button and loosened tie, someone who looked like he’d answer to “chief” or “boss” and still remembered the newsroom when it was noisy and smoke-filled, before computers, the internet, and cell phones turned it into a place as silent as a morgue. What made him so beloved by his reporters—in spite of being as tough as old boots and expecting his reporters to be the best of the best—was the knowledge that he would literally go to jail for any of them if it meant protecting his people and their sources.