The Inheritance Games (The Inheritance Games #1)(70)

“I don’t text him back,” Libby said defensively.

“You also haven’t blocked him.”

She didn’t have a reply for that.

“You could have blocked him,” I said hoarsely. “Or asked Alisa for a new phone. You could report him for violating the restraining order.”

“I didn’t ask for a restraining order!” Libby seemed to regret those words the second she’d said them. She swallowed. “And I don’t want a new phone. All my friends have the number for this one. Dad has the number for this one.”

I stared at her. “Dad?” I hadn’t seen Ricky Grambs in two years. My caseworker had been in touch with him, but he hadn’t so much as placed a phone call to me. He hadn’t even come to my mother’s funeral. “Did Dad call you?” I asked Libby.

“He just… wanted to check on us, you know?”

I knew that he’d probably seen the news. I knew that he didn’t have my new number. I knew that he had billions of reasons to want me now, when he’d never cared enough to stick around for either of us before.

“He wants money,” I told Libby, my voice flat. “Just like Drake. Just like your mom.”

Mentioning her mother was a low blow.

“Who does Oren think shot you?” Libby was grappling for calm.

I made an attempt at the same. “The shots were fired from inside the walls of the estate,” I said, repeating what I’d been told. “Whoever shot me had access.”

“That’s why Oren is tightening security,” Libby said, the gears in her head turning behind her kohl-lined eyes. “Essential personnel only.” Her dark lips fixed themselves into a thin line. “You should have told me.”

I thought about the things she hadn’t told me. “Tell me that you haven’t seen Drake. That he hasn’t come here. That you wouldn’t let him onto the estate.”

“Of course I didn’t.” Libby went silent. I wasn’t sure if she was trying not to yell at me—or not to cry. “I’m going to go.” Her voice was steady—and fierce. “But for the record, little sis, you’re a minor, and I’m still your legal guardian. The next time someone tries to shoot you, I damn well want to know.”





CHAPTER 63


I knew Oren had to have heard every word of my fight with Libby, but I was also fairly certain he wouldn’t comment on it.

“I’m still looking for the Davenport,” I said tersely. If I’d needed the distraction before, it was downright mandatory now. Without Libby to explore with me, I couldn’t bring myself to just keep wandering from room to room. We already checked the old man’s office. Where else would someone keep a Davenport desk?

I concentrated on that question, not my fight with Libby. Not what I’d said—and what she hadn’t.

“I have it on good authority,” I told Oren after a moment, “that Hawthorne House has multiple libraries.” I let out a long, slow breath. “Got any idea where they are?”





Two hours and four libraries later, I was standing in the middle of number five. It was on the second floor. The ceiling was slanted. The walls were lined with built-in shelves, each shelf exactly tall enough for a row of paperback books. The books on the shelves were well-worn, and they covered every inch of the walls, except for a large stained-glass window on the east side. Light shone through, painting colors on the wood floor.

No Davenport. This was starting to feel useless. This trail hadn’t been laid for me. Tobias Hawthorne’s puzzle hadn’t been designed with me in mind.

I need Jameson.

I cut that thought off at the knees, exited the library, and retreated downstairs. I’d counted at least five different staircases in this house. This one spiraled, and as I walked down it, the sound of piano music beckoned from a distance. I followed it, and Oren followed me. I came to the entryway of a large, open room. The far wall was filled with arches. Beneath each arch was a massive window.

Every window was open.

There were paintings on the walls, and positioned between them was the biggest grand piano I’d ever seen. Nan sat on the piano’s bench, her eyes closed. I thought the old woman was playing, until I walked closer and realized that the piano was playing itself.

My shoes made a sound against the floor, and her eyes flew open.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I—”

“Hush,” Nan commanded. Her eyes closed again. The playing continued, building to a crashing crescendo, and then—silence. “Did you know that you can listen to concerts on this thing?” Nan opened her eyes and reached for her cane. With no small amount of effort, she stood. “Somewhere in the world, a master plays, and with the push of a button, the keys move here.”

Her eyes lingered on the piano, an almost wistful expression on her face.

“Do you play?” I asked.

Nan harrumphed. “I did when I was young. Got a bit too much attention for it, and my husband broke my fingers, put an end to that.”

The way she said it—no muss, no fuss—was almost as jarring as the words. “That’s horrible,” I said fiercely.

Nan looked at the piano, then at her gnarled, bird-boned hand. She lifted her chin and stared out the massive windows. “He met with a tragic accident not long after that.”