“Does the Grayson family know about you?” Jameson asked his brother.
No banter, no sarcasm. He knew what family meant to Grayson.
“I saw no need for them to,” came the reply. “But I can assure you that if Sheffield Grayson’s wife, sister, or daughters had a hand in this, I would know.”
“You hired someone.” Jameson’s eyes narrowed. “With what money?”
“Invest. Cultivate. Create.” Grayson didn’t offer any more explanation than that before he stood. “If we’ve ruled out the families of Colin Anders Wright and Kaylie Rooney, that leaves only the family of the third victim: David Golding.”
“I’ll have someone look into it.” Oren didn’t even step out of the shadows to speak.
“Seems like you do that a lot.” Eve leveled a gaze in his direction.
“Heiress.” Jameson suddenly stopped pacing. He picked up the envelope the message had come in. “This was addressed to you.”
I heard what he was saying, the possibility he’d seen. “What if Toby isn’t the target of revenge?” I said slowly. “What if I am?”
“You have a lot of enemies?” Eve asked me.
“In her position,” Grayson murmured, “it’s hard not to.”
“What if we’re looking at this wrong?” When Xander paced, it wasn’t in straight lines or in circles. “What if it’s not about the message? What if we should be focusing on the code?”
“The game,” Jameson translated. “We all recognized that word trick.”
“Sure did.” Nash hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his worn jeans.
“We’re looking for someone who knows how the old man played.”
“What do you mean how the old man played?” Eve asked.
Grayson answered and kept it brief. “Our grandfather liked puzzles, riddles, codes.”
For years, Tobias Hawthorne had laid out a challenge for his grandsons every Saturday morning—a game to play, a multi-step puzzle to be solved.
“He liked testing us,” Nash drawled. “Making the rules. Watching us dance.”
“Nash has granddaddy issues,” Xander confided to Eve. “It’s a tragic yet engrossing tale of—”
“You don’t want to be finishing that sentence, little brother.” There wasn’t anything explicitly dangerous or threatening in Nash’s tone, but Xander was no dummy.
“Sure don’t!” he agreed.
My thoughts raced. “If we’re looking for someone who knows Tobias Hawthorne’s games, someone dangerous and bitter with a grudge against me…”
“Skye.” Jameson and Grayson said their mother’s name at once. Trying to kill me hadn’t worked out too well for her. But given that Sheffield Grayson had framed her for a murder attempt she hadn’t committed, not trying to kill me hadn’t worked out too well for Skye Hawthorne, either.
What if this was her next play?
“We need to confront her,” Jameson said immediately. “Talk to her—in person.”
“I’m going to have to veto that idea.” Nash strolled toward Jameson, his pace unhurried.
“How does that classic proverb go?” Jameson mused. “You’re not the boss of me? It’s something like that. No, wait, I remember! It’s You’re not the boss of me, wanker.”
“Excellent use of British slang,” Xander commented.