“Avery.” Oren saying my name from the doorway was the only warning I got.
Eve walked into the Tea Room, her hair damp, wearing the white dress she’d worn the day she arrived. “He knew about me?” She looked from me to Grayson, a portrait of devastation. “Tobias Hawthorne knew about me?”
I was a good poker player, in large part because I could spot a bluff, and this—her chin trembling, her voice hardening, the aching look in her eyes, the set of her mouth, like she wouldn’t let her lips turn down—didn’t feel like a bluff.
But a voice in the back of my head said three words. Don’t trust anyone.
The next thing I knew, Eve was walking toward me. Oren moved to stand between us, and Eve’s eyes angled upward, like she was taking a moment to steel herself. Trying not to cry.
She held out her phone. “Take it,” Eve spat out. “Passcode three eight four five.”
I didn’t move.
“Go ahead,” Eve told me, and this time, her voice sounded deeper, rougher. “Look at the photos. Look at anything you want, Avery.”
I felt a stab of guilt, and I glanced at Jameson. He was watching me intently. I didn’t let myself react—at all—when Grayson came to stand beside Eve.
Looking down, wondering if I’d made a mistake, I plugged the passcode Eve had given me into her phone. It unlocked the screen, and I navigated to her photo roll. She hadn’t deleted the one I’d seen her taking, and this time, I identified which file she’d photographed.
“Sheffield Grayson.” I brought my eyes back up to Eve’s, but she wouldn’t even look at me.
“I’m sorry,” she told Grayson, her voice quiet. “But he’s the wealthiest person in any of those files. He has motive. He has means. I know you said it wasn’t him, but—”
“Evie.” Grayson gave her a look, the kind of Grayson Hawthorne look that burned itself into your memory because it said everything he wouldn’t.
“It’s not him.”
Sheffield Grayson was dead, but Eve didn’t know that. And she was right: He had come after Toby. Just not now.
“If it’s not Sheffield Grayson,” Eve said, her voice cracking, “then we have nothing.”
I knew that feeling: the desperation, the fury, the frustration, the sudden loss of hope. But I still looked back down at Eve’s phone and scrolled backward through her photo reel. Don’t trust anyone. There were three more photos of Sheffield Grayson’s file and a few of Toby’s room, and that was it. If she’d taken photos of any other files—or anything else—they’d been deleted. I scrolled back further and found a picture of Eve and Toby.
He looked like he was trying to swat the camera away, but he was smiling —and so was she.
There were more pictures of the two of them, going back months. Just like she’d said.
If the old man had intended for you to be wary only of Eve, the message wouldn’t have said don’t trust anyone . It would have said don’t trust her.
Doubt shot through me, but I pulled up her call log. There were a lot of incoming calls, but she hadn’t picked up a single one. She hadn’t placed any, either. I went to her texts and quickly realized why she’d been getting so many calls. The story. The press. When I’d been in a similar situation, I’d had to get a new phone. I kept clicking through texts, needing to know if there was more, and then I came to one that said simply: We have to meet.
I looked up. “Who’s this from?” I asked, angling the phone toward her.
“Mallory Laughlin,” Eve shot back. “She left voicemails, too. You can verify the number.” She looked down. “I guess she’s seen the pictures of me. Rebecca must have given her my number. I turned my phone off once the story broke so I could concentrate on Toby, but look at all the good that did.” Eve drew in a ragged breath. “I am done with this sick bastard’s twisted little games.” Her chin came up, and her emerald eyes went diamond hard. “And I am not going to stay where I’m not wanted. I can’t. ”