The Inheritance Games (The Inheritance Games #1)(22)

He was looking at me so intently now, I didn’t dare look away.

“Why do you think this house has so many secret passages? Why are there so many keys that don’t work in any of the locks? Every desk my grandfather ever bought has secret compartments. There’s an organ in the theater, and if you play a specific sequence of notes, it unlocks a hidden drawer. Every Saturday morning, from the time I was a kid until the night my grandfather died, he sat my brothers and me down and gave us a riddle, a puzzle, an impossible challenge—something to solve. And then he died. And then…” Jameson took a step toward me. “There was you.”

Me.

“Grayson thinks you’re some master manipulator. My aunt is convinced you must have Hawthorne blood. But I think you’re the old man’s final riddle—one last puzzle to be solved.” He took another step, bringing the two of us that much closer. “He chose you for a reason, Avery. You’re special, and I think he wanted us—wanted me—to figure out why.”

“I’m not a puzzle.” I could feel my heart beating in my neck. He was close enough now to see my pulse.

“Sure you are,” Jameson replied. “We all are. Don’t tell me that some part of you hasn’t been trying to figure us out. Grayson. Me. Maybe even Xander.”

“Is this all just a game to you?” I put my hand out to stop him from advancing farther. He took one last step, forcing my palm to his chest.

“Everything’s a game, Avery Grambs. The only thing we get to decide in this life is if we play to win.” He reached up to brush the hair from my face, and I jerked back.

“Get out,” I said lowly. “Use the normal door this time.” My entire life, no one had touched me as gently as he had a moment before.

“You’re angry,” Jameson said.

“I told you—if you want something, ask. Don’t come in here talking about how I’m special. Don’t touch my face.”

“You are special.” Jameson kept his hands to himself, but the heady expression in his eyes never shifted. “And what I want is to figure out why. Why you, Avery?” He took a step back, giving me space. “Don’t tell me you don’t want to know, too.”

I did. Of course I did.

“I’m going to leave this here.” Jameson held up an envelope. He laid it carefully on the mantel. “Read it, and then tell me this isn’t a game to be won. Tell me this isn’t a riddle.” Jameson reached for the candelabra, and as the fireplace passage opened once more, he offered a targeted, parting shot. “He left you the fortune, Avery, and all he left us is you.”





CHAPTER 20


Long after Jameson had disappeared into darkness and the fireplace door had closed, I stood there, staring. Was this the only secret passage into my room? In a house like this one, how could I ever really know that I was alone?

Eventually, I moved to take the envelope Jameson had left on the mantel, even though everything in me rebelled against what he had said. I wasn’t a puzzle. I was just a girl.

I turned the envelope over and saw Jameson’s name scrawled across the front. This is his letter, I realized. The one he was given at the reading of the will. I still had no idea what to make of my own letter, no idea what Tobias Hawthorne was apologizing for. Maybe Jameson’s letter would clarify something.

I opened it and read. The message was longer than mine—and made even less sense.


Jameson,

Better the devil you know than the one you don’t—or is it? Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. All that glitters is not gold. Nothing is certain but death and taxes. There but for the grace of God go I.

Don’t judge.

—Tobias Tattersall Hawthorne





By the next morning, I’d memorized Jameson’s letter. It sounded like it had been written by someone who hadn’t slept in days—manic, rattling off one platitude after another. But the longer the words marinated in the back of my brain, the more I began to consider the possibility that Jameson might be right.

There’s something there, in the letters. In Jameson’s. In mine. An answer—or at least a clue.

Rolling out of my massive bed, I went to unplug my phones, plural, from their chargers and discovered that my old phone had powered down. With some hefty pushes on the power button and a little bit of luck, I managed to cajole it back on. I didn’t know how I could even begin to explain the past twenty-four hours to Max, but I needed to talk to someone.

I needed a reality check.

What I got was more than a hundred missed calls and texts. Suddenly, the reason Alisa had given me a new phone was clear. People I hadn’t spoken to in years were messaging me. People who had spent their lives ignoring me clamored for my attention. Coworkers. Classmates. Even teachers. I had no idea how half of them had gotten my number. I grabbed my new phone, went online, and discovered that my email and social media accounts were even worse.

I had thousands of messages—most of them from strangers. To some people, you’ll be Cinderella. To others, Marie Antoinette. My stomach muscles tightened. I set both phones down and stood up, my hand going over my mouth. I should have seen this coming. It shouldn’t have been a shock to my system at all. But I wasn’t ready.

How could a person be ready for this?