The Brothers Hawthorne (The Inheritance Games, #4)(10)

Just like they didn’t know that the father the three of them shared was dead.

Sheffield Grayson had made the mistake of attacking Avery. It hadn’t ended well for him. As far as the rest of the world knew, the wealthy Phoenix businessman had simply disappeared. Popular theory seemed to be that he’d taken off for some tropical tax haven with a much younger woman. Grayson had been keeping an eye on Juliet and Savannah ever since.

In and out, he reminded himself. He wasn’t in Phoenix to forge relationships or tell the twins who he was. There was a situation to be handled. Grayson would handle it.

When he walked into the Phoenix Police Department, he let one and only one thought rise to the surface of his mind. Never question your own authority and no one else will, either.

“Anyone see that Ferrari out front?” A twentysomething patrol officer rushed in. “Holy sh—” He cut off and stared at Grayson, who, like the car, had a way of making an impression.

Grayson didn’t let a hint of amusement show on his face. “You have Juliet Grayson in your custody.” That was not a question, but Grayson’s demeanor demanded a response.

“Gigi?” Another officer joined the two of them, craning his neck, like he somehow expected to be able to see Grayson’s Ferrari through the walls. “Oh yeah. We have her.”

“You’ll want to rectify that.” There was a difference between telling people what you wanted and making it clear that it was in their best interest to give it to you. Explicit threats were for people who needed to assert their power. Never assert what you can assume, Grayson.

“Who the hell are you?”

Grayson knew without turning that the person who had just spoken was older than the other two officers—and higher ranked. A sergeant, perhaps, or a lieutenant. That, in combination with the way that the name Juliet Grayson had gotten his attention, told Grayson all he needed to know: This man was the reason that arrest paperwork hadn’t been filed.

“Do you really have to ask?” Grayson replied. He knew the power of certain facial expressions: the kind without a hint of aggression, the kind that made a promise nonetheless.

The lieutenant—Grayson could see his badge now—took measure of Grayson, the cut of his very expensive suit, his absolute lack of nerves. It was easy enough to see the man debating: Had Grayson been sent by the same person who’d called in a favor with him?

“I can call our mutual friend, if you like.” Grayson, like all Hawthornes, was an excellent bluffer. He slipped his phone from his pocket. “Or you can have one of these officers take me to the girl.”





CHAPTER 10





GRAYSON


They were keeping Juliet Grayson in an interrogation room. She sat cross-legged on top of the table, her wrists resting on her knees, palms up. Her hair was chocolate brown to Grayson’s light blond, wavy where his was straight. She wore it cut just below her chin, the waves buoyant, gravity-defying, and a little wild.

She was staring at an empty coffee cup, her eyes—brighter and bluer than his—unblinking.

“Still no telekinesis?” the cop who’d led Grayson back here asked.

The prisoner grinned. “Maybe I need more coffee?”

“You definitely do not need more coffee,” the cop said.

The girl—Grayson’s flesh and blood, though she couldn’t know that and he wouldn’t dwell on it—hopped off the table, her hair bouncing. “Matilda by Roald Dahl,” she told him by way of explanation. “It’s a children’s book in which a neglected kid genius develops the ability to move objects with her mind. The first thing she ever knocks over is a glass of water. I read it when I was seven, and it ruined me for life.”

Grayson found himself almost wanting to smile, perhaps because the girl across from him was beaming like it was her default state. Without turning back toward the police officer, he spoke. “Leave us.”

The trick to making people do what you wanted was absolute certainty that they would.

“Wow!” the human ray of sunshine across from him said once the cop was gone. “That was great!” She adopted a deep and serious voice. “Leave us. I’m Gigi, by the way, and I bet you never have to break into bank vaults. You just look at them, and boom, they’re open!”

Break into bank vaults? Grayson had known the location where she had been taken into police custody, but the details had been vague.

“Impressive eyebrow arch,” Gigi told him cheerfully. “But can you do this?” She let her blue eyes go very round, her lower lip trembling. Then she grinned and jerked a thumb toward the table, where the empty coffee cup she’d been trying to knock over was surrounded by five others. “Read ’em and weep. I make that face, and they just keep bringing me coffee! And chocolate, but I don’t like chocolate.” Out of nowhere, she produced a candy bar and held it out to him. “Twix?”

Grayson had an urge to tell her that this wasn’t a game. That she was in police custody. That this was serious. Instead, he tamped down on the protective instincts and opted for: “You haven’t asked who I am.”

“I mean, I did say I’m Gigi,” she said with a winning smile, “so the lack of introduction here is kind of on you, buddy.” She lowered her voice. “Did Mr. Trowbridge send you? It’s about time. I called him last night as soon as they brought me in.”