Late into the night, the five of us dug into the Hawthorne family history, looking for meaning in those dates. August 3, 1975. September 7, 1948.
Tobias Hawthorne had been born in 1944. Alice had been born in 1948—
but in February, not September. The two of them were married in 1974.
Zara was born two years later, Skye three years after that, and Toby two years later, in 1981. Tobias Hawthorne had filed his first patent in 1969.
He’d founded his first company in 1971.
A little before midnight, I got a phone call from Libby. I answered the phone with a question. “Did you find something?”
We might have hit a wall, but Libby had spent hours in New Castle.
She’d had time to ask about Harry. Time to look for him.
“No one at the soup kitchen has seen him for weeks.” My sister’s tone was hard for me to place. “So we tried the park.”
“Libby?” I could hear my own heart beating in the silence that followed.
“What did you find?”
“We talked to an older man. Frank. Nash tried to bribe him.”
“Didn’t work, did it?” I asked. More silence. “Lib?”
“He wasn’t going to tell us anything, but then he looked at me for a minute, and he asked me if my name was Avery. Nash told him it was.”
I should have been there myself. I should have been the one talking to Frank. “What did he say?”
“He gave me an envelope with your name on it. A message from Harry.”
The world came screeching to a halt. Toby left me a message. I wanted to stop the thought there, but I couldn’t. My father… left me… a message.
“Take a picture of the envelope,” I told Libby, recovering my voice.
“And the letter. I want to read it myself.”
“Ave…” Libby’s voice got very soft.
“Just do it!” I said urgently. “Please.”
Less than a minute later, the pictures came through. My first name was written on the envelope in familiar scrawl, part print, part cursive. I scrolled through to the next picture—the message—and my heart sank all the way to my stomach.
The only words that Toby Hawthorne had for me were STOP LOOKING.
I couldn’t sleep. The next day was Monday. I had school, and at this rate, I was going to be up staring at my ceiling all night. Rolling out of bed and walking over to my closet, I withdrew the lone, ratty bag I’d brought from home. I unzipped the pocket on the side and pulled out my mom’s postcards —the only thing I had left of her.
I have a secret. I could hear her saying it. I could see her smile, like she was there with me right now.
“Why didn’t you just tell me?” I whispered. Why had she pretended my father was someone else? Why hadn’t Toby been a part of my life?
Why didn’t he want me looking for him now?
Something snapped inside of me, and before I knew it, I was walking.
Out of my room, past Oren, who was positioned outside my door. I barely heard his objections. My pace picked up, and by the time I rounded the corner to Toby’s wing, I was running.
The brick wall stared back at me. The Laughlins thought I had no business in Toby’s wing. I’d been warned away. I’d walked into my bedroom to find it bloody, and right now, I didn’t care if they were the ones who’d done it, or if it was another member of the staff. I didn’t care who’d been the stalker in the woods at True North or who’d “decorated” my locker. I didn’t care about Ricky Grambs or Skye Hawthorne or the way the skin over my knuckles split as I punched them into that wall.
Toby thought he could tell me to stop looking? He didn’t want to be found?
He didn’t get to tell me to stop. Nobody did. Oren moved to restrain me, and I fought him. I wanted to fight someone. Oren let me. He wasn’t going to allow me to hurt myself, but he wouldn’t stop me from lashing out at him. That just made me angrier.
I ducked his grip and barreled toward the bricks.
“Heiress.” Suddenly, Jameson was standing between me and the wall. I tried to stop, but couldn’t in time, and my fist connected with his chest. He didn’t even blink.
I uncurled my fists, staring at him, realizing what had happened and horrified that I had hit him.
“I’m sorry.” I had no excuse for losing it like this. So Toby had told me to stop looking? So he didn’t want to be found? So what?
What was that to me?
“Tell me what you need.” Jameson wasn’t flirting. He wasn’t being cryptic. He wasn’t using me, in any way that I could tell.
I let out a long, effortful breath. “I need to take this damn wall down.”
Jameson nodded. He looked past me to Oren. “We’re going to need a sledgehammer.”
