“And that stuff about no one on his property working if he’s not there? Is he for real?”

Will shrugs, starting the engine. “He’s got an alibi either way.”

Unfortunately, I can’t argue. I take one more glance at the house, the stately disproportionate front entrance where the two deerhounds sit in profile. They haven’t moved an inch since we first arrived, as if they’ve been glued in place. An operation like this needs lots of hands to make it run smoothly, but I don’t see anyone around. Maybe they’re all well back in the vineyards, or in the outbuildings, occupied with the crush or whatever goes on by day, but it’s still an odd picture, like an enormous beehive, perfectly constructed and full of honey, but utterly empty of drones.

“I still wouldn’t rule out Drew for the abuse piece,” I say. “He wasn’t on a tractor back then.”

“Good point,” he agrees as we head back down the long, manicured drive. “What did you make of her?”

“Lydia? I don’t know. A few things she said about Cameron seemed pretty insightful. But if she does care, why hasn’t she reached out to Emily and Troy since Cameron disappeared? You’d think she’d be camped out in their living room like families do for one another. None of it fits.”

“Even if it’s the harvest,” he says pointedly. “They don’t need the money.”

“Exactly. And if they’re pissed at Troy, why not show up and make a stand? Did you hear what Lydia said about Cameron having a change in personality from when she first came? She’s been worried, okay. But why keep that to herself?”

Will grumbles his agreement as we pull back out onto the main road, where the vineyards run in long lines, on and on in a symmetry of red-gold light. Strings of colored tinsel flicker from wires above the vines, there to keep the birds away, but beautiful in their own right. This is why tourists come to wine country, not just to get tipsy from tiny pours of Cabernet Sauvignon, but to be inside this world, where every surface mirrors back the sun.

I try to get comfortable for the long drive home, but my shoulders still feel tense and weighted. Will’s radio is tuned to his own department’s air. One of his deputies comes on to report a 10-15, a domestic disturbance. Will leans forward, listening intently until another deputy is dispatched. Only then do I ask him what’s been on my mind for a while. “What are the chances of getting a warrant to unseal Cameron’s adoption file?” I ask Will.

“Why? What do you think you might find?”