The Final Gambit (The Inheritance Games #3)(59)

There were other things on the wall, too: comic books written by Hawthornes; a coffee table book of Grayson’s photographs; some patents, most of them in Xander’s name.

The patents, I realized with a start. Each certificate had a number on it.

And each number, I thought, the world around me suddenly crisp and in hyperfocus, has seven digits.





CHAPTER 54

We looked up US Patent number 3631982. It was a utility patent issued in 1972. There were two patent holders: Tobias Hawthorne and a man named Vincent Blake.

Who am I? the man on the phone had said. And when I’d told him to tell me, he’d said that he already had.

“Vincent Blake,” I said, turning to the boys. “Did your grandfather ever mention him?

“No,” Jameson replied, energy and intensity rolling off him like a storm rolling in. “Gray? Xan?”

“We all know the old man had secrets.” Grayson’s voice was tight.

“I got nothing,” Xander admitted. He wedged himself in front of me to get a better look at the computer screen, then scrolled through the patent information and stopped on a drawing for the design. “It’s a mechanism for drilling oil wells.”

That rang a bell. “That’s how your grandfather made his money—at least at first.”

“Not with this patent,” Xander scoffed. “Look. Right here!” He pointed at the drawing, at some detail I couldn’t even make out. “I’m not exactly an expert at petroleum engineering, but even I can see that right there is what one would call a fatal flaw. The design is supposed to be more efficient than prior technology, but…” Xander shrugged. “Details, details, boring things —long story short is that this patent is worthless.”

“But that’s not the only patent the old man filed in nineteen seventy-two.” Grayson’s voice was like ice.

“What was the other patent?” I asked.

A few minutes later, Xander had it pulled up. “The goal of this mechanism is the same,” he said, looking at the design, “and you can see some elements of the same general framework—but this one works.”

“Why would anyone file two patents in the same year with such similar designs?” I asked.

“Utility patents cover the creation of new or improved technologies.”

Jameson came to stand behind me, his body brushing mine. “Breaking a patent isn’t easy, but it can be done if you can weasel your way around the claims to uniqueness made by the prior patent. You have to break each claim individually.”

“Which this patent does,” Xander added. “Think of it like a logic puzzle.

This design changes just enough that the infringement case isn’t there—and then it adds the new piece, which forms the basis of its claims. And it’s that new piece that made this patent valuable.”

This patent had only one holder: Tobias Hawthorne. My mind raced.

“Your grandfather filed a bad patent with a man named Vincent Blake. He then immediately filed a better and non-infringing patent by himself, one that made the first completely worthless.”

“And made our grandfather millions,” Grayson added. “Before that, he was working on oil rigs and playing inventor at night. And afterward…”

He became Tobias Hawthorne.

“Vincent Blake.” My chest tightened around my racing heart. “That’s who we’re dealing with. That’s who has Toby. And this is why he wants revenge.”

“A patent?”

I looked up to see Eve. “I texted her,” Grayson told me, preempting any suspicions I might have had about her sudden appearance.

“All of this,” Eve continued, emotion palpable in her tone, “because of a patent?”

Who am I? Vincent Blake had asked me. But that wasn’t the end of this.

It couldn’t be. I’d thought the riddle was who took Toby—and why. But what if there was a third element, a third question?

What does he want?

“We need to know who we’re dealing with.” Grayson sounded nothing like the shattered boy from the wine cellar. He sounded more than capable of dealing with threats.

“You’ve really never heard of this guy?” Thea asked. “He’s rich and powerful and hates your family’s guts, and you’ve never even heard his name?”

“You know as well as I do,” Grayson replied, “that there are different kinds of rich.”

Jameson tossed me his phone, and I skimmed the information he’d pulled up on Vincent Blake. “He’s from Texas,” I noted. This state suddenly felt much smaller. “Net worth just under half a billion dollars.”

“Old oil money.” Jameson met Grayson’s gaze. “Blake’s father hit liquid gold in the Texas oil boom of the nineteen thirties. By the late nineteen fifties, a young Vincent had inherited it all. He spent two more decades in oil, then pivoted to ranching.”

That didn’t tell us anything about what the man was really capable of— or what he wanted. “He must be in his eighties now,” I said, trying to stick to the facts.

“Older than the old man,” Grayson stated, his tone balanced on a knife’s edge between icy and cool.

“Try adding your grandfather’s name to the search terms,” I told Jameson.