The Final Gambit (The Inheritance Games #3)(53)

“It’s not him.”

Sheffield Grayson was dead, but Eve didn’t know that. And she was right: He had come after Toby. Just not now.

“If it’s not Sheffield Grayson,” Eve said, her voice cracking, “then we have nothing.”

I knew that feeling: the desperation, the fury, the frustration, the sudden loss of hope. But I still looked back down at Eve’s phone and scrolled backward through her photo reel. Don’t trust anyone. There were three more photos of Sheffield Grayson’s file and a few of Toby’s room, and that was it. If she’d taken photos of any other files—or anything else—they’d been deleted. I scrolled back further and found a picture of Eve and Toby.

He looked like he was trying to swat the camera away, but he was smiling —and so was she.

There were more pictures of the two of them, going back months. Just like she’d said.

If the old man had intended for you to be wary only of Eve, the message wouldn’t have said don’t trust anyone . It would have said don’t trust her.

Doubt shot through me, but I pulled up her call log. There were a lot of incoming calls, but she hadn’t picked up a single one. She hadn’t placed any, either. I went to her texts and quickly realized why she’d been getting so many calls. The story. The press. When I’d been in a similar situation, I’d had to get a new phone. I kept clicking through texts, needing to know if there was more, and then I came to one that said simply: We have to meet.

I looked up. “Who’s this from?” I asked, angling the phone toward her.

“Mallory Laughlin,” Eve shot back. “She left voicemails, too. You can verify the number.” She looked down. “I guess she’s seen the pictures of me. Rebecca must have given her my number. I turned my phone off once the story broke so I could concentrate on Toby, but look at all the good that did.” Eve drew in a ragged breath. “I am done with this sick bastard’s twisted little games.” Her chin came up, and her emerald eyes went diamond hard. “And I am not going to stay where I’m not wanted. I can’t. ”

I could feel this entire situation getting away from me, like sand slipping through my fingers.

“Don’t go,” Grayson told Eve, the words soft. And then he turned to me, and that softness fell away. “Tell her not to go.” This was the tone he’d used with me right after I’d inherited, the one made for warnings and threats. “I mean it, Avery.” Grayson looked at me. I expected his eyes to be icy or blazing, but they were neither. “I have never asked for anything from you.”

It was palpable in his voice: the many, many things he had never asked for.

I could feel Jameson watching me, and I had no idea what he wanted or expected me to do. All I knew was that if Eve left, if she walked out of Hawthorne House and past the gates, into the line of fire, and something happened to her, Grayson Hawthorne would never forgive me.

“Don’t go,” I told Eve. “I’m sorry.”

I was, and I wasn’t. Because those words just wouldn’t leave me alone: Don’t trust anyone.

“I want to meet Mallory.” Eve lifted her chin. “She’s my grandmother.

And at least she didn’t know about me.”

“I’ll take you to see her,” Grayson said quietly, but Eve shook her head.

“Either Avery takes me,” she said, equal parts challenge and injury in her tone, “or I walk.”





CHAPTER 50

Oren wasn’t happy about me leaving Hawthorne House, but when it became clear that I wasn’t going to be dissuaded, he ordered security teams to all three SUVs. When we departed, a trio of identical vehicles pulled out past the gates, leaving the paparazzi hoarde with no way of knowing which one Eve and I were in.

Xander was the only Hawthorne with us. He’d come for Rebecca’s sake, not Eve’s, and Eve had allowed it. We’d left Grayson and Jameson behind.

“What’s she like?” Eve asked Xander, once we were clear of the paparazzi. “My grandmother?”

“Rebecca’s mom was always… intense.” Xander’s response pulled my attention away from the heavily tinted window. “She used to be a surgeon, but once Emily was born and they found out about her heart, Mallory quit to devote herself to managing Em’s condition full-time.”

“And then Emily died,” Eve said softly. “And…”

“Kablooey.” Xander made an exploding motion with his fingers. “Bex’s mom started drinking. Her dad goes on these monthlong business trips.”

“And now I’m here.” Eve looked at her hands: her fingers were thin, her nails uneven. “So this is going to go really well,” she muttered.

That was probably an understatement. I texted Thea to give her a heads-up. No response. I pulled up her social media and found myself staring at the last four photos she’d posted. Three of them were black-and-white self-portraits. In one, Thea stared directly at the camera, wearing heavy mascara, her face streaked black with tears. In the second, she was curled into a ball, her hands fisted, almost no clothing visible on her body. In the third, Thea was flipping off the camera with both hands.

Beside me, Eve looked at my phone. “I think I might like those even better than poetry.” That sounded like the truth. Everything she said did.