Grayson didn’t let himself pause, even for a second, when he transcribed the word murder. He just let this almost Shakespearean drama play out: the unseated king stripped of power by the machinations of his dead mother-in-law; a rising heir entangled with the king’s archenemy. A family with blood on their hands. A debt that would be paid.
Grayson was getting closer and closer to the end of the journal. And then he wrote down a date that made him look up from the page, made him close his eyes.
The interview. Mine and Avery’s. Grayson could recall each question that he and Avery had been asked. He remembered the way Avery’s body had turned toward his, the way he’d let himself look at her, really look at her, in service of letting the world see that the Hawthorne family had accepted Tobias Hawthorne’s chosen heir.
But mostly, Grayson remembered the moment they’d lost control of the narrative—and the way he’d taken that control back.
Pulling her body to his.
Bringing his lips to hers.
For one damn moment, he’d stopped fighting himself. He’d kissed her like kissing her was what he had been born to do, like it was inevitable, like they were. And not long after, everything had exploded.
The way it always did. The way it had with Emily. With Avery. With Eve.
Why not you? Grayson forced his eyes open. He let himself stare at the date he’d written down, then he took Sheffield Grayson’s index card, matched its notches up to the notches on the page he was decoding, set the cipher wheel to the appropriate number, based on the withdrawal slip with that date. And then, he decoded, read, and wrote.
Sheffield Grayson had watched the interview. He was the one who had set them up to be broadsided with the bombshell accusation that Grayson’s uncle Toby was still alive. Sheffield Grayson had believed that Avery was Toby’s daughter. He’d wanted confirmation, but that confirmation had never come, because Grayson had taken matters into his own hands.
That kiss.
Grayson’s father’s resulting rage was palpable, even now. Toby Hawthorne’s daughter, he’d written, doesn’t get to kiss my son.
Grayson leaned his head back until swallowing hurt. He called me his son. No quotation marks. No dismissal. Nothing but possession and fury—and with that fury, purpose.
“Gray?” Xander said quietly beside him.
Grayson shook his head. He wasn’t talking about this. There was nothing to talk about. He focused instead on finishing what he’d set out to do. There were exactly three more entries in the journal. Grayson made his way through them with military precision and merciless speed. After the night of the interview, Sheffield Grayson had returned to the detached record-keeping style of his earlier entries.
The first of the three entries documented a cryptocurrency payment to a “specialist.” The second included payment information for a Texas storage unit. The third simply had a list of supplies that Sheffield Grayson anticipated needing. Chloroform. Zip ties. Accelerant. A gun.
And that was it, the end of his records.
Grayson stopped writing. He dropped the pen, allowed the journal in which he’d written the translation to close.
“Reckon I know better than to ask if you’re okay,” Nash said quietly.
“I ate the rest of the Oreos,” Xander announced gravely. “Here, Gray. Have some pie!”
Grayson seized on the distraction his younger brother had offered. “When did you stop for pie?”
“When didn’t I stop for pie?” Xander replied philosophically.
The vise in Grayson’s chest loosened. Not much. Not enough. But at least he could breathe—and think. Not about the fact that Sheffield Grayson had finally referred to him as his son. Not about the role that kiss had played in setting off everything that followed: the bomb, Avery’s kidnapping, Sheffield Grayson’s death.
No, Grayson thought, as he always did, about what to do next. Some people could make mistakes. He wasn’t one of them.
Eventually—most likely within hours—Gigi and Savannah were going to come looking for the puzzle box. Without the faux USB key, they might never get it open, but Grayson knew better than to underestimate his sisters. If they opened the box to find it empty, they would be rightly suspicious.
His course of action decided, Grayson stole Xander’s fork, took a bite of pie, then placed a call to the concierge. “I need a plain leather journal,” he said. “Expensive, brown leather, lined paper, no brand name or other identifying marks on the leather or pages.”
CHAPTER 79
GRAYSON
While Grayson waited for his request to be fulfilled, he picked up his father’s fountain pen and a hotel notepad. Returning to the first page of Sheffield Grayson’s journal, Grayson studied the minute details of the man’s handwriting. His 1s were straight lines; the slight thickening of that line near the top suggested he made them from the bottom up. The 3s were curvy, the ends angled slightly inward. His 6 had a smaller loop than his 9; 4s and 5s had sharp corners, harsh angles.
I can do this. Pen in hand, Grayson replicated a single line of numbered text. Close, but not quite. He tried again. Again. By the time the hotel delivered the new journal, Grayson was ready. Slowly, painstakingly, he transcribed the numbered entries, creating a duplicate journal that stopped just after the girls’ grandmother’s funeral. Grayson placed the duplicate journal in the central compartment of the puzzle box, then began reassembling it. This time, he tucked the faux USB beneath a strip of wood on the outermost layer.
His sisters deserved that much, at least. A chance to open the box. A chance to decode the journal. A chance to know who their father had been—even if Grayson couldn’t allow them to learn it all.
Standing, he turned and gave the original journal to Nash. “Take this back to Hawthorne House,” he said. “Hide it in the Davenport at the bottom of the stairs hidden behind the bookshelves in the loft library.” Grayson looked down at his notebook, the one in which he’d decoded the original, and, after a moment, he handed it to Xander. “This, too.”
With both the original and the decoded transcription hidden away at Hawthorne House, the situation would be defused. The truth of Sheffield Grayson’s demise would remain hidden. Avery would be protected.
“Burn this,” he told his brothers finally, handing them the notepad on which he’d practiced Sheffield Grayson’s writing. One last string to tie up.
“You expect us to just leave you here?” Nash leaned against the doorframe, crossing his right foot lazily over his left ankle in a way that said I have all day, little brother.
“I’m fine,” Grayson told him. “Or at least, as fine as I ever am.”
For now, at least, he had purpose. The twins needed him still, in a way that his brothers didn’t, in a way they hadn’t for a very long time. The FBI needed to be dealt with. Then there was Acacia’s financial situation. Finding the offshore accounts referenced in the journal. Acquainting himself with the fine details of the twins’ trusts. Keeping an eye on Trowbridge.
“I want to stay,” Grayson told Nash. “For a few weeks at least. Someone has to keep Gigi out of trouble, and Savannah is carrying far too much.”
“She’s you,” Xander said emphatically. “But female!”
Nash pushed off the doorway. “Sounds like you’ll have your hands full… big brother.”
Within the hour, Nash and Xander were gone. Grayson looked down at the puzzle box, then he picked up his phone. He texted Gigi and got three texts back in rapid succession—and also, three pictures of cats.