The Hawthorne Legacy (The Inheritance Games #2)(29)

“Oren?” I asked Grayson, scowling. “Or Alisa?”

“Neither,” Grayson replied, and he brought his gaze back to mine. “I saw a picture of you at the hotel. I’m more than capable of making inferences myself.”

I tried not to read too much into that last sentence, but I couldn’t help thinking about the inference that Max had made about that picture of Jameson and me. Was that why Grayson was acting like this?

You’re the one who stepped back, I thought. This is what you wanted.

“If you needed something from Skye,” Grayson said, his voice strained, “all you had to do was tell me.”

I remembered then what I’d needed from Skye. What she’d confirmed. Suddenly, nothing else mattered.

“Have you seen Jameson today?” I asked Grayson, a muscle in my stomach twisting. “He skipped school. Did he… come find you?”

“No.” Grayson’s jaw tightened. “Why?”

Jameson hadn’t told Grayson about his father, but it didn’t feel right for me to do it. “We figured something out.” I looked down. “About the charities in the will.”

“You don’t stop.” Grayson shook his head. His arms stayed by his sides, but I saw the thumb on his right hand rubbing the back of his forefinger—a small loss of control that made me think he might be on the verge of a bigger one. “And neither,” he continued, “does Jameson.” He turned then, tension visible in his neck and jaw, even as his voice remained deadly calm. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to have a word with my brother.”





CHAPTER 28


I followed Grayson. Eli followed me. To Grayson’s credit, he gave up trying to lose me pretty quickly. He let me trail him all the way to the third floor, through a series of twisting hallways, up a small wrought-iron staircase, to an alcove. There was an antique sewing machine in the corner. The walls were covered with quilts. Grayson lifted one to reveal a crawl space.

“If I told you to go back to your room, would you?” he asked.

“Not a chance in this world,” I said.

Grayson sighed. “About ten feet in, you’ll find a ladder.” He held the quilt back and waited, his chin tilted downward, his eyes on mine. The world might bend to the will of Grayson Hawthorne—but I didn’t.

Leaving Eli behind, I made my way through the crawl space on all fours. I could feel and hear Grayson behind me, but he didn’t say a word until I started to climb the ladder. “There’s a pull-down door at the top. Be careful. It sticks.”

I pushed down the urge to turn back and look at him and managed to get the door open and climb through, blinking when harsh sunlight hit my eyes. I’d expected an attic—not the roof.

Looking around, I climbed out onto a small, flat area, about five feet by five feet, nestled among the grand angles of the Hawthorne House roofline. Jameson was leaning back against the roof, his face aimed skyward, like he was sunbathing.

In his hand, he held a knife.

“You kept that?” Grayson stepped onto the roof behind me.

Jameson, eyes still closed, twirled the knife in his hand. The handle on the blade parted in two, revealing a compartment inside. “Empty.” Jameson opened his eyes and pressed the compartment closed. “This time.”

Grayson’s mouth settled into a firm line. “I invoke—”

“Oh no,” I said fiercely. “Not this again. No one is invoking anything!”

Jameson caught my gaze. His green eyes were liquid and shadowed. “Did you tell him?” he asked me.

“Tell me what?” Grayson said sharply.

“Well, that answers that.” Jameson pushed himself into a standing position. “Heiress, before we start spilling secrets, I’m going to need you to promise me a plane.”

“A plane?” I gave him an incredulous look.

“You have several.” Jameson smiled. “I want to borrow one.”

“Why do you need a plane?” Grayson asked suspiciously.

Jameson waved away the question.

“Fine,” I told him. “You can take one of my planes.” Yet another sentence I never thought I’d say.

“Why,” Grayson repeated through gritted teeth, “do you need a plane?”

Jameson looked back at the sky. “Colin’s Way was founded in memory of Colin Anders Wright.” I wondered if Grayson could hear the undertone in Jameson’s voice. Not quite sadness, not quite regret—but something. “Colin was one of the victims of the fire on Hawthorne Island. The charity was founded by his uncle.”

“And?” Grayson was getting impatient.

Jameson looked suddenly toward me. He can’t say it. He can’t be the one who tells him.

I pressed my lips together and took a breath. “That uncle’s name is Sheffield Grayson.”

Absolute silence greeted that statement. Grayson Hawthorne wasn’t a person who showed much emotion, but in that moment, I felt every subtle shift of his expression in the pit of my stomach.

“That’s why you went to see Skye,” Grayson said. His voice was tight.

“She confirmed it, Gray.” Jameson ripped the bandage off. “He’s your father.”

Grayson went quiet again, and Jameson moved suddenly, tossing the knife at him. Grayson’s hand whipped up to catch it by the handle.