The Final Gambit (The Inheritance Games, #3)(87)

“Tobias bested you.” That was my first thrust in this little verbal sword match of ours.

Blake didn’t even feel it. “And look how well that turned out for him.”

I wasn’t sure if that was a reference to the fact that the only person who had ever bested Vincent Blake had turned out to be one of the most formidable minds in a generation—or a self-satisfied prediction that all of Tobias Hawthorne’s achievements would be nothing in the end.

The billionaire was dead, his fortune ripe for the taking.

“Your son hated him.” I tried again, with a different type of attack. “And he was desperate to prove himself to you.”

Blake didn’t deny it. Instead, he brought the bowie knife away from the wood and tested its sharpness against the pad of his thumb. “Tobias should have let me handle Will. He knew the kind of hell there would be to pay for bringing harm to my son. Choices, young lady, have consequences.”

“And how would you have handled what your son did to Mallory Laughlin?”

“That’s neither here nor there.”

“And boys will be boys,” I shot back. “Right?”

Blake studied me for a moment, then laid the knife on his leg. “I understand you have some friends at the gate.”

“The entire world knows I’m here,” I said. “They know what happened to your son.”

“Do they?” Eve said, a challenge in her tone. The story I was telling—she must have heard enough from Mallory to question it.

“That’s enough, Eve.” Blake’s voice was clipped, and Eve swallowed as her great-grandfather looked between the two of us. “I shouldn’t have sent a little girl to do a man’s job.”

Little girl. On the phone earlier, he’d referred to me that way, too. Tobias Hawthorne had been right. I was young. I was female. And this man would underestimate me.

“If I’d brought you your son’s remains,” I said, “you would have blackmailed me for breaking the law.”

“Blackmailed you into what, I wonder?” Blake meant that I should wonder.

I knew that it was to my advantage for him to think he had the upper hand, so I had to tread carefully now. “If Grayson and Toby don’t leave here with me, I’ll give another interview on the way out.”

It was dangerous to threaten a man like Vincent Blake. I knew that. I also knew that I needed him to believe that this was my play. My only play.

“An interview?” That got me another little hum. “Will you tell them about Sheffield Grayson?”

I’d anticipated that he would counter my move, but I hadn’t foreseen how, and suddenly, I couldn’t hold my pulse steady anymore. I couldn’t keep my face completely blank.

“Eve may have failed at her primary task,” Blake said, “but she’s a Blake—and we play to win. I’m still considering whether she’s earned this.” He brandished a golden disk identical to the one I’d placed on the wall. “But the information she brought me when she returned was… quite impressive.”

Information. About what happened to Grayson’s father. I thought about the file, the pictures on Eve’s phone.

“I read between the lines,” Eve said, her lips curving up. “Grayson’s father is missing, and based on what I was able to put together, he went missing shortly after someone orchestrated an attempt on your life. Sheffield Grayson had motive to be that someone. I didn’t have proof, of course, but then…” Eve gave a little shrug. “I called Mellie.”

Eve’s sister was the one who had shot Sheffield Grayson. She’d killed him to save Toby and me. “The sister who never did a damn thing for you?” I asked, my throat bone-dry.

“Half sister.” The correction told me that Eve hadn’t lied about her feelings for her siblings. “It was a very touching reunion, especially when I told her that I forgive her.” Eve’s lips twisted. “That I was there for her. Mellie is wracked with guilt, you know. About what she did. About what you covered up.”

I’d been ushered out of the storage facility when Sheffield Grayson’s blood was still fresh on the ground. “I didn’t cover up anything.”

Blake brought his blade back to the wood and began carving again—slow, smooth motions. “John Oren did.”

I’d come here with a plan, but I hadn’t planned for this. I’d thought that by calling the police about Will Blake’s remains, I would sap his father of much-needed leverage. I hadn’t foreseen that Vincent Blake had leverage in reserve.

“It seems,” the man commented mildly, “that I have the advantage on you once again.”

He’d never doubted it.

“What do you want?” I asked. I let him see my very real distress, but inside, the logical part of my brain took over. The part that liked puzzles. The part that saw the world in layers.

The part that had come here with a plan.

“Anything I want from you,” Blake said simply, “I’ll take.”

“I’ll play you for it,” I told him, improvising and letting my brain adjust, adding a new layer, one more thing that had to go right. “Chess. If I win, you forget about Sheffield Grayson and see to it that Eve and Mellie do the same.”

Blake seemed amused, but I could see something much darker than amusement glinting in his eyes. “And if you lose?”