The Brothers Hawthorne (The Inheritance Games, #4)(117)

It took all of a minute for the game to come to a pause. The judge pushed open the glass door, annoyed. “Can we help you?”

“I can wait.” Grayson put very little inflection in those words. “I’d hate to interrupt your match.”

Trowbridge made his way out into the hall, his racket dangling from one hand. He scowled. “Mr. Hawthorne.”

Grayson had the general sense that Trowbridge was using mister the way a high school principal might. It wasn’t a sign of respect, that was for sure—but either way, the form of address he’d chosen backfired.

“Hawthorne?” the judge asked.

Grayson offered the man the most perfunctory of smiles. “Guilty as charged.” He turned the full force of his gaze and attention to the judge. “You recently signed a federal warrant for my younger sisters’ home.” Grayson’s tone was conversational, because he’d learned from the master that the most powerful people in the world never needed to do more than converse. “What a coincidence that the two of you know each other.”

Trowbridge, Grayson saw with no small amount of satisfaction, was getting irritated. “Whatever you think you’re doing here, young man, Acacia won’t thank you for it.”

That was doubtlessly true. “She probably won’t thank the forensic accountants I hired, either.”

A vein pulsed near Trowbridge’s temple, but he made a valiant attempt at holding on to his calm. He turned to his racquetball partner. “Same time next week?”

The judge looked long and hard at Grayson, then glanced back at Trowbridge. “I’ll let you know.”

Soon enough, Grayson and his prey were alone. Right on cue, Trowbridge’s phone buzzed.

Grayson smiled. “I’m sure that’s not anything too critical.”

Trowbridge visibly resisted the urge to answer his phone. “What can I do for you, Grayson?”

First name now. Interesting choice. “Once you’ve been disbarred,” Grayson replied, gloves off, “not much.”

“I’ve had enough of this,” Trowbridge told him. “They never even should have let you past the front desk.”

Grayson stared at the man for a moment, watching that vein throb, and then he said a string of numbers, one after another, evenly paced, no particular emphasis on any one digit. “That’s the account that the money from Acacia’s trust was transferred into. The records of the receiving bank in Singapore are, of course, nearly impossible to access.” Grayson gave the slightest of shrugs. “Nearly.”

Trowbridge was really sweating now, but when men like Trowbridge felt threatened, they blustered. “Are you suggesting you know where your father is?”

In response, Grayson recited another number. “That’s the combination to your safe,” he clarified helpfully.

“How dare you—”

“My brothers and I are fond of dares,” Grayson replied. “And foreign banks like the one you used—they’re awfully fond of billionaires.”

“You aren’t a billionaire,” Trowbridge spat. “You have nothing.”

“A Hawthorne,” Grayson replied coolly, “never has nothing.” He paused, the silence a knife to be wielded just so. “You’re thinking about everything you keep in that safe.”

“I’ll have you arrested.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Grayson told the man. “I’m sure that once the FBI realizes—if they haven’t already—that the entirety of Acacia Grayson’s inheritance has been restored to her trust, they won’t stop until they track down the party responsible.” Grayson held Trowbridge’s gaze in a way designed to hold him in place. “They’ll think it’s her husband at first, I’m sure…”

Trowbridge narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you mean your father?”

It was almost amusing, the way this man thought there were points to be won in this little back and forth. The way he didn’t realize—refused to realize—that he was done.

“My father,” Grayson agreed amiably. “I can’t say I have any affection for the man. But at least he—or whoever took Acacia’s money—had a sudden burst of conscience.” Grayson leaned forward, just slightly. “I hope for that person’s sake,” he said softly, “that they weren’t sloppy.”

There was an art to saying things without saying them. Things like I know you took the money. And the FBI will know that soon, too.

“You’re done,” Trowbridge blustered. “If you think your name will protect you…”

“I don’t need protection,” Grayson said simply. “It wasn’t my safe. Those weren’t my accounts.”

Trowbridge’s phone buzzed again.

Grayson continued blithely, “I certainly didn’t send those emails.”

There it was—the bob of his opponent’s Adam’s apple. “What emails?” Trowbridge demanded.

Grayson didn’t reply. He glanced pointedly at court number seven. “You’ll have to let me know if the judge still wants to play next week.”

Within the week, said the promise beneath that seemingly innocuous sentence, no one will be willing to risk a connection with you.

Grayson turned to leave.