“A cipher wheel,” Grayson he told his brothers.
Nash and Xander were on him in an instant. This wasn’t the Hawthorne brothers’ first time encountering a cipher wheel—or even their twentieth—so all three of them knew what to look for. The larger of the two wheels had letters carved around the edge, A through Z, plus a handful of common digraphs—Sh, Ch, Th, Wh, Ck, Kn. The inner wheel contained numbers, 1 through 32, but not in order, which explained, along with the inclusion of digraphs, why Grayson’s initial rudimentary attempts hadn’t broken the code.
“All we need to know now,” Xander said buoyantly, “is where to set the inner wheel.”
Going through the options manually was a possibility, but the part of Grayson that had grown up racing to complete those Saturday morning games wouldn’t let him.
Sheffield Grayson had a system. A routine. He retrieved the safe-deposit key and faux USB from his office, then retrieved his fake ID. He went to the bank. He withdrew money and left the slips in the safe-deposit box. He went to his sister’s house.
Grayson skirted thinking about what, besides the slips, had been in that box. Instead, he asked a simple question out loud. “Why save the slips?”
The answer came to him like a lightning strike. He went back to the pile. On each slip, there was a date. The same dates in the journal? That would be easily enough to verify. What he was more interested in right now was the withdrawal amounts.
Two hundred seventeen dollars. Five hundred six dollars. Three hundred twenty-one dollars.
But according to Sheffield Grayson’s sister, he’d only given her even amounts.
“He set the wheel to a different position for each entry.” Grayson didn’t phrase that as a possibility or a question. “And kept the slips as a record to help him decode his own writing.”
17. 6. 21. Most likely, those were the numbers set to the A. All he had to do was match the dates on the slip to the date on the journal entries, turn the wheel to the appropriate spot, and…
Grayson put the pen that Xander had dismantled back together and retrieved his own leather notebook. Ignoring how similar it looked to his father’s, he turned to the first entry that Sheffield Grayson had written and began to decode.
At first, all he got was nonsense. Again. But this time, Grayson didn’t stop. He kept going, and eventually, the numbers on the page turned to words. Fifty thousand dollars to shell five, Cayman Islands, via shell two, Switzerland…
Eventually, the code settled back into gibberish. Noise. On the next page, Grayson found the same thing: meaningful content embedded in noise. The real message was in a different location on this page.
How was that determined? Grayson didn’t need to know the answer to that question. He had no actual need to understand exactly how his father’s mind had worked. But on some level, he wanted to, so when he noticed two subtle tears at the top of the current page, when he turned to the next and saw two more tiny tears in the paper—in a different position—he brought his finger to lightly touch them.
Not tears, Grayson thought, his gaze darting to the hotel desk, where the white index card he’d removed from Sheffield Grayson’s office still sat. Notches.
CHAPTER 75
JAMESON
Well done, my boy. Jameson didn’t just hear Ian say that; he felt the words. Physically. Like he’d been holding a breath too long, finally gasped in air, and discovered that breathing hurt.
He just asked me to hand over the keys. To hand over the entire damn game.
Avery shifted closer to Jameson, the back of her hip brushing his leg. Without a word, Jameson pressed the key he’d just discovered—with its shining, maze-like head—into her hand.
Almost like he didn’t trust himself with it.
“What are you doing here, Ian?” Jameson asked. He’d meant for the question to sound sharper.
Ian Johnstone-Jameson strolled casually forward, like his appearance in the middle of the Game was only natural, like Jameson shouldn’t have been surprised to see him in the least.
“Is that your way of asking if the Factotum knows I’m treading on these hallowed grounds, interfering in his little game?” Ian asked with an expression that danced the line between a smile and a smirk. “If so, the answer, I’m afraid, is no.”
He’s not supposed to be here. Jameson managed to pry his gaze away from Ian and glance at Katharine. She must have tipped him off about the location of the Game. Did she have a phone hidden somewhere? Does it matter?
“You have two keys,” Ian murmured, his gaze lingering on the key in Avery’s hands. “Two out of three—and only one for my holier-than-thou brother. I’m liking our odds.”
Our as in yours and mine? Jameson thought bitterly. Or yours and Katharine’s? “What’s she doing here?” he demanded.
Katharine looked slightly amused at the question, like nothing Jameson could say or do would amount to more than childish antics in her mind.
“The formidable Katharine and I have come to an agreement of sorts.” Ian’s lips curled again, more smile than smirk this time and wholly self-satisfied. “You’ll give her those keys,” Ian continued grandly, “and everyone will leave here happy—except my oldest brother, of course, which I have to admit has its appeal.”
“What about Vantage?” Jameson asked. He had enough self-awareness to know that what he was really asking was what about me?
Ian gave a little shrug. “I really don’t see how that’s any concern of yours.”
And that was the thing, Jameson realized. Ian really didn’t. The offer to leave Jameson Vantage had been impulsive, spur-of-the-moment. Forgotten.
“You sold me out.” Jameson’s could feel the intensity in his voice. “You asked me to play this game. You aimed me like an arrow at an almost impossible target.”
And now, when Jameson was on the verge of hitting the bull’s-eye—after working his way into the Devil’s Mercy, after everything he’d done to win entrance to the Game, after putting that secret on the line, coming here and solving puzzle after puzzle—Ian expected him to pull back?
“What did Katharine offer you?” Avery’s tone was flat as she assessed Ian like a speck beneath a microscope. “She’s working for your other brother, right? What did he offer you?”
“I’m afraid the terms of our deal are confidential.” Katharine wasn’t the smiling type, but there was a certain amount of satisfaction in her tone. “The keys, if you please, children?”
“No.” Jameson didn’t think, didn’t consider his options—because there weren’t any. He hadn’t come here, hadn’t put everything on the line, to back down now.
“No?” Katharine arched a brow, then turned her head toward Ian, a silent fix this.
“No,” Jameson repeated. “As in the opposite of yes, to decline, deny, or negate. No.”
“Jameson.” Ian walked to stand directly in front of him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “You did what I needed you to do, son.”
I have his eyes. Jameson let himself think that, just this once. Grayson has his father’s eyes, and I have mine. I have his laugh.
“You said you needed a player,” Jameson replied, ignoring the hand on his shoulder. Nothing could hurt you unless you let it. “Someone smart and cunning, merciless—”
“But never dull,” Ian cut in. “Yes, yes, I know. And you played. Well done, you. But now, the plan has changed.”
Your plan, Jameson thought, emotions twisting in his gut like brambles full of thorns. He’d known from the beginning that Ian was using him. He’d known that. But at least he’d been indispensable to the plan before. But now?
I’m disposable. “You wanted a player who could calculate odds,” Jameson said, and he could hear the wild fury building in his own voice. “Someone who could defy those odds.”
And I did that.
“I needed a player, and you played,” Ian said, sounding annoyed now. “It’s over. Now give me the keys.”