The Hawthorne Legacy (The Inheritance Games #2)(33)

“We need to communicate that you are relatable, grateful for the tremendous opportunity you’ve been given, on good terms with the Hawthorne family, and exceedingly unlikely to throw multiple billion-dollar industries into chaos.” She let a second pass, then continued. “But how you communicate those things is up to you. If I write the script, it will sound like a script, so you need to do the work here, Avery. What can you authentically say about this whole experience?”

I thought about Hawthorne House, about the boys who lived here, about the secrets built into the very walls. “It’s incredible.”

“Good,” Landon replied. “And?”

My throat tightened. “I wish my mom were here.”

I wished that she could see me. I wished that I’d had money—any money—when she’d gotten sick. I wished that I could ask her about Toby Hawthorne.

“You’re on the right track,” Landon told me. “Truly. But for the time being, it would be best to avoid bringing up your mother.”

If I’d been able to, I would have stared at her, but instead, my chin was tilted roughly back, and I found myself staring at the ceiling.

Why doesn’t she want me talking about my mom?





Two hours later, I was bedecked in a knee-length dress made of lavender silk, with an impossibly delicate black lace wrap. Instead of heels, I wore knee-high boots—black, suede, and not comfortable in the least. Preppy with an edge, my signature look.

I was still thinking about Landon—and my mother.

“I did some research.” Max waited until the two of us were alone to share. “Looks like there’s a tabloid that keeps writing stories about your mom.”

“Saying what?” I asked. My heart rate ticked up. The dress I’d been told to wear was tight enough that I was almost certain you could see my heart beating. Does the press suspect that she lied about who my father is? I pushed down the thought.

“The tabloid claims your mom was living under a fake name.” Max handed me her phone. “So far, no one else has picked up the story, so it’s probably bullship, but…”

“But Landon doesn’t want me talking about my mom,” I finished. I closed my smoky eyes, just for a second. “She didn’t have any family,” I told Max when I opened them. “It was just her and me.” I thought of every ridiculous guess I’d ever made in a game of I Have A Secret. I’d gone down the secret-agent-living-under-a-false-identity route more than once.

“It might make sense,” Max said. “Wasn’t Toby living under a fake name, too?”

That raised a whole sea of questions that I’d been avoiding: How exactly had my mom come to be involved with Tobias Hawthorne’s son? Had she known who he really was?

A sharp knock at the door broke into my thoughts. “Are you ready?” Alisa called.

“Are we sure I can’t skip this?” I called back.

“You have five minutes.”

I turned back to Max. “We wear the same size,” I said.

“And that is of interest why?” Max asked, her brown eyes dancing.

I led her over to my closet, and when I threw open the doors, she literally gasped at the sight beyond. “Get dressed, birthday girl. There’s no way I’m going to this thing on my own.”





CHAPTER 32


The biggest indoor space at Heights Country Day was called the Commons. It was part lounge, part meeting space, and tonight it had been transformed. Gold curtains lined the sides of the room. The furniture had been replaced with dozens of circular tables covered with silk tablecloths in a deep midnight purple. Emily’s favorite color. Near the front of the room, two enormous pictures sat on golden easels. One was an architect’s sketch of the new chapel. The other was a photograph of Emily Laughlin. I tried not to stare at it—and failed.

Emily’s hair was strawberry blond, with just enough of a natural wave to make her look a little unpredictable. Her skin was unbearably clear, her eyes all-knowing. She wasn’t as beautiful as Rebecca, but there was something about the way she smiled.…

I couldn’t help thinking that maybe it was a good thing that Jameson and Grayson weren’t here. They’d loved her, both of them. Maybe they still do.

Beside me, Xander bumped his shoulder into mine. Alisa had given him strict orders to stay close to me, just like she’d reluctantly assigned Nash as Libby’s escort tonight. Part of the damage control we were supposed to do was conveying that I was on good terms with the Hawthorne family—easier said than done, given that Xander and Nash weren’t the only Hawthornes in attendance.

On the far side of the room, I caught sight of Zara and Constantine, mingling.

“We need to work the room,” Alisa murmured directly into the back of my head. She began herding Xander and me toward a string quartet, and that was the exact moment when I spotted Skye Hawthorne. She was laughing freely, surrounded by admirers—some male, some female.

“The couple on the left are Christine Terry and her husband, Michael,” Alisa murmured. “Third-generation oil money. Not people you want as enemies.”

I translated that to mean: not people we want laughing with Skye.

“I’ll introduce you,” Alisa told me.

“Help me,” I mouthed at Max.