Five minutes later, we were in the Hawthorne theater. Not to be confused with the Hawthorne movie theater, this one had a stage, a red velvet curtain, stadium and box seating—the whole shebang.
Xander stood on the stage, holding a microphone. A screen had been set up behind him, and there must have been a projector somewhere because “911!” danced on the screen.
“I need this,” Xander said into the microphone. “You need this. We all need this. Nash, I’ve cued up the Taylor Swift for you. Jameson, get ready to break out those dance moves because this stage is calling your name, and we all know that your hips are utterly incapable of falsehood. And as for Grayson…” Xander paused. “Where is Gray?”
“Grayson Hawthorne skipping out on karaoke?” Libby said. “I’m shocked, I tell you. Shocked.”
“Gray has a voice so deep and smooth that you will shed literal tears as he sings something so old school that you will come to believe he spent the 1950s wearing the most dapper of suits and hanging out with his bestie, Frank Sinatra,” Xander swore. He swung his gaze to his brothers. “But Gray’s not here.”
Jameson glanced at me. “You don’t ignore a nine-one-one text,” he told me. “No matter what.”
“Where is Grayson?” Nash asked. And that was when I heard it—a sound halfway between a crash and the shattering of wood.
Jameson jogged out to the hallway. There was another crash. “Music room,” he told us.
Xander jumped off the stage. “My duet will have to wait!”
“Who were you going to duet with?” Libby asked.
“Myself!” Xander yelled as he ran for the door, but Nash caught him.
“Hold on there, Xan. Let Jamie go.” Nash looked toward me. “You go, too, kid.”
I wasn’t sure what Nash thought was going on here—or why he seemed so sure that Jameson and I were the ones Grayson needed.
“In the meantime,” Nash told Xander, “give me the mic.”
As Jameson and I made our way down the corridor, the sound of achingly beautiful violin music began drifting into the hall. The music room door was open, and when I stepped through it, I saw Grayson poised in front of open bay windows, wearing a suit without the jacket, his shirt unbuttoned, a violin pressed to his chin. His posture was perfect, each movement smooth.
The floor in front of him was covered with shards of wood.
I couldn’t remember how many ultra-expensive violins Tobias Hawthorne had purchased in pursuit of cultivating his grandson’s musical ability, but it looked like Grayson had destroyed at least one.
The song reached a final note, so high and sweet it was almost unbearable. Then there was silence as Grayson lowered the violin, took a step away from the windows, and then raised the instrument again—over his head.
Jameson caught his brother’s forearm. “Don’t.” For a moment, the two of them grappled, sorrow and fury. “Gray. You’re not hurting anyone but yourself.” That had no effect, so Jameson went for the jugular. “You’re scaring Avery. And you missed Xander’s nine-one-one.”
I wasn’t scared. I could never be scared of Grayson—but I could ache for him.
Grayson slowly lowered the violin. “I apologize,” he told me, his voice almost too calm. “It’s your property I’ve been destroying.”
I didn’t care about my property. “You play beautifully,” I told Grayson, pushing back the urge to cry.
“Beauty was expected,” Grayson replied. “Technique without artistry is worthless.” He looked down at the remains of the violin he’d destroyed. “Beauty is a lie.”
“Remind me to mock you for saying that later,” Jameson told him.
“Leave me,” Grayson ordered, turning his back on us.
“If I’d known we were having a party,” Jameson half sang, “I would have ordered food.”
“A party?” I asked.
“A pity party.” Jameson smirked. “I see you dressed for the occasion, Gray.”
“You’re right.” Grayson walked toward the door. “This is self-indulgent. Thoroughly beneath me.”
Jameson reached out to trip him, and then it was on. I understood now why Nash had sent Jameson. Sometimes Grayson Davenport Hawthorne needed a fight—and Jameson was only too happy to oblige.
“Let it all out,” Jameson said, ramming his head into Grayson’s stomach. “Poor baby.”
Tobias Hawthorne hadn’t just expected beauty. The four Hawthorne grandsons were also damn near lethal.
Grayson flipped Jameson onto his back, then went in for the kill. I knew Jameson well enough to realize that he’d just let himself be pinned.
Every muscle in Grayson’s body was tight. “I thought that we failed him,” he said, his voice low. “I thought we weren’t enough. I wasn’t enough, wasn’t worthy. But you tell me, Jamie: What the hell is there for us to be worthy of?”
“He played to win,” Jameson gritted out beneath his brother. “Always. You can’t tell me that comes as a surprise.”
“You’re right.” Grayson didn’t loosen his grip. “He was ruthless. He raised us to be the same. Especially me.”
Jameson locked his eyes onto his brother’s. “To hell with what he wants. What do you want, Gray? Because we both know that you haven’t let yourself want anything in a very long time.”
The two of them were sucked into a staring contest: silvery gray eyes and deep green ones, one set narrowed and one wide open.
Grayson looked away first, but he didn’t remove his forearm from Jameson’s neck. “I want to get Toby back. For Eve.” There was a pause, and then Grayson’s head turned toward mine, the light reflecting off his blond hair in a near-halo. “For you, Avery.”
I closed my eyes, just for a moment. “Jameson thinks—we both think—that there might be a connection between Toby’s kidnapping and the game your grandfather left me. That it might tell us something.”
Grayson angled his gaze back toward his brother’s, then dropped his hold and abruptly stood.
I continued, “I know you didn’t want to play—”
“I will,” Grayson said, the words cutting through the air. He reached a hand down to Jameson and pulled him to his feet, leaving the two of them standing just inches apart. “I’ll play, and I’ll win,” Grayson said, with the force of absolute law, “because we are who we are.”
“We always will be,” Jameson said. No matter how close I got to the Hawthorne brothers, there would always be things they shared that I could barely fathom.
“Here, Heiress.” Jameson broke eye contact with his brother, removed the photograph from his pocket, and handed it to me. “You’re the one who found this clue. You’re the one who should explain it.”
It felt significant: Jameson bringing me closer to Grayson instead of pushing me away.
I held the picture out, and Grayson’s fingers brushed mine as he took it.
“We don’t know who those three women are,” I said. “There’s a date on the back. And a caption. We can take you through what we’ve already done.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Grayson’s gaze was sharp. “What else was in the bag that our grandfather left you?”
I went to get it, and when I came back, Grayson and Jameson were standing farther apart. Both of them were breathing heavily, and the expressions on their faces made me wonder what had passed between them while I was gone.
“Here,” I said, ignoring the tension in the room. I laid out the remaining three objects in the game, naming them as I did. “A steamer, a flashlight, a USB drive.”
Grayson set the photograph down next to them. After what felt like a small eternity, he flipped the photograph over to read the caption once more.
“The date gives us numbers,” Jameson said. “A code or—”
“Not a code,” Grayson murmured, picking up the steamer. “A vintage.” His gaze found its way slowly and inexorably to mine. “We need to go down to the wine cellar.”
