The Brothers Hawthorne (The Inheritance Games, #4)(34)

“Light, heat, blacklight,” Xander rattled off, a grin audible in his voice. “Sodium iodide.”

“Exactly.” Grayson let his eyes go back to the card.

“And how is everything going with the sister?” Xander probed.

Still staring at the index card, Grayson corrected him. “Sisters.” The word escaped him. He’d been careful not to think of the girls that way up to this point, but he could feel himself on a slippery slope.

They were his to protect, even if he wasn’t their family.

“Sisters, plural? As in you met the other one?”

“She knows who I am and despises me on principle.” Grayson gave a slight shake of his head. “I’m a threat to her family.”

“And threats must be extinguished,” Xander intoned. “Is she blonde?”

Grayson scowled. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Does she like giving orders?” Xander asked excitedly. “What are her thoughts on suits?”

The point Xander was making did not escape Grayson. “The fact that she doesn’t trust me is going to make my job more difficult.”

“Gray?” Xander said gently. “That’s not the difficult part.”

Grayson thought fleetingly of the family portrait. Of the picture of Colin. Of Acacia saying that if she’d known about him earlier, things might have been different.

Damn Xander.

“Repeat after me, Gray: My feelings are valid.”

“Stop talking,” Grayson ordered.

“My emotions are real,” Xander continued. “Go on. Say it.”

“I’m hanging up on you now.”

“Who’s your favorite brother?” Xander called loudly enough that Grayson could still hear him even as he removed the phone from his ear.

“Nash,” he answered loudly.

“Lies!”

Grayson’s phone vibrated. “I’m getting another call,” he told Xander.

“More lies!” Xander said happily. “Give my regards to Girl Grayson!”

“Good-bye, Xander.”

“You said good-b—”

Grayson hung up before Xander could finish, switching over to take the incoming call. “Yes?”

On the other end of the line, there was silence.

“Hello?” Grayson tried. See? He aimed a mental retort at Xander. I say hello.

“Is this Grayson Hawthorne?” The voice that asked that question was female and unfamiliar. There was something about it—the tone, the timbre, the spacing in that question—that kept him from hanging up.

“To whom am I speaking?” Grayson asked.

“That doesn’t matter.” She said that like a simple truth, but the subtle rise and fall of her pitch and the way her voice sounded to his ears made him think that she was wrong.

Who this girl was mattered very much.

“To whom am I speaking?” Grayson repeated. “Or would you prefer I rephrase the question: On whom am I about to hang up?”

“Don’t hang up.” That wasn’t a plea, but it wasn’t quite an order, either. “You’re speaking with someone from whom the Hawthorne family has taken a great deal.”

The way she tossed the word whom right back at him did not go unnoticed—and neither did the way her voice got a little quieter and a little deeper.

“I presume that when you say the Hawthorne family, you mean my grandfather.” Grayson kept his own tone even. “Whatever Tobias Hawthorne did or didn’t do, it’s none of my concern.”

That was a lie, the kind that even Grayson couldn’t will into being true.

“My father shot and killed himself when I was four years old.” The girl’s voice was calmer than it should have been. “I was the only one in the house with him when it happened. And do you know what the last thing he said to me was?”

Twin muscles in Grayson’s throat tightened. “How did you get this number?” he demanded. In the back of his mind, he could see it. A small girl. A man with a gun.

“Shockingly, asshole, my father’s last words were not How did you get this number.”

Grayson waited for her to tell him what those last words had been, and when she didn’t, he realized: She’d hung up.

I am not responsible for the things the old man did. Grayson stared at the phone for far too long, then put it down. The only things he was responsible for right now were testing that blank index card for invisible ink and getting dressed.

What the hell did people wear to high school parties?





CHAPTER 29





GRAYSON


You have worn shorts before, haven’t you?”

Grayson narrowed his eyes at Gigi. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Instead, he took in the scene around them. The Trowbridge abode had one of those modern, open floorplans. The only thing demarcating the foyer, dining room, kitchen, living room, and Great Room from one another was the decor. Overhead, a dozen teenagers leaned against a minimalist railing. At least three of them appeared to be trying to toss Ping-Pong balls over the railing and into plastic cups below.

Their aim was horrible.

A ball ricocheted by. Grayson didn’t even blink. Instead, he assessed the partygoers on the ground floor—and those he could see through glass doors leading out back to the pool. There were perhaps fifty or sixty teenagers here total. No adults.