The Hawthorne Legacy (The Inheritance Games #2)(22)

So much for working on this together.

“Oh, look,” Xander said, nudging me in the side. “There’s Nan. Hello, Nan!”

The boys’ great-grandmother glared at Xander from the porch. “And just what have you been up to?” she asked him sharply.

“Nonsense and mischief,” he replied solemnly. “Always.”

She scowled, and he bounded up onto the porch and kissed the top of her head. She swatted at him. “Think you can sugar me up, do you?”

“Perish the thought,” Xander replied. “I don’t have to sugar you up. I’m your favorite!”

“Are not,” Nan grunted. She poked him with her cane. “Go on with you. I want to talk to the girl.”

Nan didn’t ask if I wanted to talk. She just waited for me to approach, then took my arm for balance. “Walk with me,” she ordered. “In the garden.”

She said nothing for at least five minutes as we made our way, at a snail’s pace, through a topiary garden. Dense bushes had been shaped into sculptures. Most were abstract, but I saw a topiary elephant and couldn’t keep an incredulous look from settling over my face.

“Ridiculous,” Nan scoffed. “All of it.” After a long moment, she turned to me. “Well?”

“Well, what?” I said.

“What have you done to find my boy?” Nan’s harsh expression trembled slightly, and her grip on my arm tightened.

“I’m trying,” I said quietly. “But I don’t think Toby wants to be found.”

If Toby Hawthorne had wanted to be found, he could have returned to Hawthorne House at any time in the last twenty years. Unless he doesn’t remember. That thought hit me out of nowhere. The Allport Institute focused on memory research—Alzheimer’s, dementia, and memory loss. What if that was the story Tobias Hawthorne was telling in the will? What if his son had lost his memory?

What if Harry didn’t know he was Toby Hawthorne?

The thought that he might not have lied to me nearly took me to my knees. I forced myself to slow down. I was leaping to conclusions. I didn’t even know for certain that the four charities had been chosen to tell a story.

“Have you ever heard of Camden House?” I asked Nan. “It’s a treatment center for—”

“I know what it is.” Nan cut me off, her voice gruff.

There was no easy way to ask this next question. “Did your daughter and son-in-law send Toby there?”

“He wasn’t an addict,” Nan spat. “I know addicts. That boy was just… confused.”

I wasn’t about to bicker with her about words. “But they sent him to Camden House, for his confusion?”

“He was angry when he left and angry when he got back.” Nan shook her head. “That summer…” Her lip quivered. She didn’t finish what she was saying.

“Was that the summer of the fire?” I asked softly.

Before Nan could reply, a shadow fell across the two of us. Mr. Laughlin stepped onto the garden path. He was holding a pair of shears. “Everything okay here?” He scowled, and I thought about Mrs. Laughlin calling me cruel.

“Everything’s fine,” I said, my voice tight.

Mr. Laughlin looked toward Nan. “We talked about this, Pearl,” he said gently. “It isn’t healthy.” Clearly, he knew what I’d told Nan about Toby. And clearly, he didn’t believe me any more than his wife did.

After a long silence, Mr. Laughlin turned back to me. “I made some repairs in the House.” A muscle in his jaw tightened. “To one of the older wings. When things fall into disrepair around here…” He gave me a look. “People get hurt.”

I understood then that one of the older wings was code for Toby’s. I wasn’t sure what the groundskeeper meant by repairs until I made my way back into Hawthorne House and went to check.

Toby’s wing had been bricked up again.





CHAPTER 20


On the way from Toby’s wing to mine, I found myself glancing back over my shoulder every hundred feet. As I stepped into my hall, I heard Libby’s voice: “Did you know about this?”

“You’re going to have to be a bit more specific, darlin’.” That was Nash, obviously. I could see his silhouette in the doorway to my sister’s room.

“Your lawyer girlfriend. These papers. Did you know?”

I couldn’t see Libby at all, so I had no idea how she was looking at Nash or what kind of papers she was holding.

“Sweetheart, I wouldn’t let Alisa hear you refer to her as my anything.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

This didn’t feel like a conversation I had any business overhearing, so I crept for the door to my room, opened it, and slipped inside. Closing the door behind me, I flipped on my light. A breeze caught my hair.

I turned to see that one of the massive windows on my far wall was open. I didn’t leave that window open. A breath caught in my throat, and I felt the drum of my heart in every inch of my body. I’d had nightmares like this before: First you notice one thing that’s off, and then— Blood. The muscles in my throat tightened like a vise. There’s blood. Panic flooded my body like a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart. Get out. Get out get out get—