Oren met me at the top of the stairs.
“Have the police gotten anything out of Drake?” I asked. “Has he admitted to the shooting? Who is he working with?”
“Deep breath,” Oren told me. “Drake has more than implicated himself, but he’s trying to paint Libby as the mastermind. That story doesn’t add up. There is no security footage of him entering the estate, and there would be if, as he claims, Libby had let him through the gate. Our best guess at the moment is that he came in through the tunnels.”
“The tunnels?” I repeated.
“They’re like the secret passages in the house, except they run under the estate. I know of two entrances, and they’re both secure.”
I heard what Oren left unsaid. “There are two that you know of—but this is Hawthorne House. There could be more.”
On my way to a ball, I should have felt like a fairy-tale princess, but my horse-drawn carriage was an SUV identical to the one that Drake had side-swiped this morning. Nothing said fairy tale like an attempted assassination.
Who knows the location of the tunnels? That was the question of the hour. If there were tunnels that Hawthorne House’s head of security didn’t even know about, I seriously doubted that Drake had come across them on his own. Libby wouldn’t have known about them, either.
So who? Someone very, very familiar with Hawthorne House. Did they reach out to Drake? Why? That last question was less of a mystery. After all, why commit murder yourself when there was someone else out there willing and ready to do it for you? All someone would have had to know was that Drake existed, that he’d already gotten violent once, that he had every reason to hate me.
Within the walls of Hawthorne House, none of that was a secret.
Maybe his accomplice had sweetened the pie by telling him that if anything happened to me, Libby stood to inherit.
They let a felon do the dirty work—and take the fall. I sat in my bulletproof SUV in a five-thousand-dollar dress and a necklace that probably could have paid for at least a year of college, wondering if Drake’s capture meant that the danger was over—or if whoever had given him tunnel access had other plans for me.
“The foundation purchased two tables for tonight’s event,” Alisa told me from the front seat. “Zara was loath to part with any seats, but since it’s technically your foundation, she didn’t have much of a choice.”
Alisa was acting like nothing had happened. Like I had every reason to trust her, when it felt like reasons not to were stacking up.
“So I’ll be sitting with them,” I said without expression. “The Hawthornes.”
One of whom—at least one of whom—might still want me dead.
“It’s to your advantage if everything appears friendly between you.” Alisa had to realize how ridiculous that sounded, given the context. “If the Hawthorne family accepts you, that will go a long way toward squelching some of the less seemly theories as to why you inherited.”
“And what about the unseemly theories that one of them—at least one—wants me dead?” I asked.
Maybe it was Zara, or her husband, or Skye, or even Nan, who’d more or less told me that she’d killed her husband.
“We’re still on high alert,” Oren assured me. “But it would be to our benefit if the Hawthornes didn’t realize that. If the conspirator’s hope was to pin things on Drake—and Libby—let them think they’ve succeeded.”
Last time around, I’d blown the element of surprise. This time, things would be different.
