Chapter 22 - The Ghost Vineyard
The drive north through the crimson canyons of New Mexico felt like crossing a threshold out of a nightmare and into an undiscovered country.
When we turned the heavy iron gates of The San Lucas Vineyard into the late afternoon sun, it didn't look like an empire; it looked like a sanctuary frozen in time. The main hacienda was draped in thick blankets of green ivy, its whitewashed walls glowing amber under the desert dusk. Rows of untamed grapevines stretched across the rolling hills toward the jagged spine of the Sangre de Cristo mountains.
The boys tumbled out of the back of the truck the moment it stopped, their shouts of wonder echoing across the silent valley as they chased a stray jackrabbit into the tall grass.
"It's beautiful, Grant," Tessa breathed, standing beside me on the wide, shaded veranda and taking in the crisp, pine-scented mountain air.
"It's quiet," Julian added, stepping out of the passenger side and looking up at the vast, star-peppered sky that was just beginning to emerge overhead. "Too quiet for a Whitlock."
"That's the point," I replied, walking up the stone steps to unlock the heavy wooden front door.
Inside, the house smelled of cedar, old parchment, and dry earth. Dust motes danced in the slanting shafts of golden sunlight piercing through the high arched windows. There were no security monitors, no smart-lock panels, and no corporate wiretaps. Just hand-carved furniture, towering bookshelves filled with leather-bound literature, and a massive stone hearth in the center of the living room.
As Julian walked over to an old record player in the corner and flipped through a stack of dusty vinyl records, I noticed a heavy iron key resting on the mantelpiece beneath a framed painting of the estate’s original water tower.
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"What's that for?" Julian asked, turning around with an old blues record in his hands.
"There's only one way to find out," I said, picking up the key.
