“My grandfather outlawed the Drop when I was around twelve,” Xander announced in the SUV on the way down. “Too many broken bones.”
“Because that’s not concerning or anything,” Max said cheerfully.
“Hawthornes,” Thea scoffed.
“Be nice.” Rebecca gave her a look.
“It’s just a friendly game of ski-lift chicken,” Xander assured us. “You ride the lift up, until someone calls ‘drop.’ And then you”—Xander shrugged—“drop.”
“As in jump off the lift?” I stared at him.
“The first person to call is the challenger. If the other person declines, the challenger has to drop. If the other person accepts the challenge, they drop and get a fifteen-second head start in the race.”
“The race?” Max and I said in unison.
“To the bottom,” Xander clarified.
“That is the single dumbest thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” I told Xander.
“Maybe,” Xander replied stubbornly. “But as soon as we’ve finished at the lodge, I’ve got winner.”
At the lodge, we were escorted through the main dining room to a private alcove overlooking the slopes beyond. Two of Oren’s men took position at the door while my head of security stayed glued to me.
“You sit,” Alisa told me. “You sip on hot chocolate. We get a few pictures—and we get you out.”
That was her plan. We had our own. Namely, identify the boy in the photo. Xander seemed to think that some of the staff at the lodge had worked here for decades. Given how tight security was on me, I wasn’t holding my breath that I’d be able to do this myself, but Max and Xander were a different story.
So were Thea and Rebecca.
Oren let the four of them venture off to the bathroom with a single guard. When they came back ten minutes later, that bodyguard looked like he had developed a migraine.
“These two,” Max told me, nodding toward Thea and Rebecca, “are really useful in getting information out of people.”
“Thea’s better at flirting,” Rebecca murmured.
Thea met Rebecca’s eyes. “And you’re a very quick learner.”
“What did they find out?” I asked Max and Xander.
“The guy in the photo used to work on the mountain.” Max was clearly relishing this. “He was a ski instructor, early twenties. Very big with the ladies.”
“Did you get a name?” I asked.
Xander was the one who provided that answer. “Jake Nash.”
Jake. My brain whirred. Nash.
CHAPTER 45
In the wake of that bombshell, Xander went to find Jameson and Grayson. Hours later, all three brothers returned from the slopes, looking scraped up and worse for the wear. Jameson eased himself into a wingback chair.
“Don’t bleed on that,” Grayson ordered.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jameson retorted. “What are your thoughts on vomiting in that vase?”
“You’re an idiot,” Grayson replied.
“You’re all idiots,” I corrected. They turned to look at me. I was wearing a pair of thick winter pajamas, part of the True North wardrobe Alisa had ordered for me. “Did Xander tell you what we found?”
“What I found, Heiress,” Jameson corrected me, then smiled. “I know about the picture. The page with what we can assume is likely a message of some kind, written in invisible ink.”
Grayson studied me for a moment, then turned to Xander. “What else did you find?”
“For the record,” Xander said grandly, hobbling over to sit on the fireplace, “I won the Drop.” He looked down at his feet. “And I might have neglected to mention that the guy in that photo is Nash’s father.”
That statement had the exact effect it was supposed to—on Jameson and Grayson. But I wasn’t surprised. After what we’d learned at the lodge, it was the logical conclusion. All four of the Hawthorne brothers had last names as first names. Grayson’s father was Sheffield Grayson. The guy in the picture—the guy Zara had her arm around—was Jake Nash.
You knew, the note in the closet had read, and you did it anyway.
“Are you going to tell Nash?” I asked the boys.
“Tell me what?”
I turned to see Nash in the doorway, Libby beside him. “Tell him what?” She narrowed her eyes at the silence that followed. “Come on, Ave,” Libby groaned. “No more secrets.”
She was the reason I’d gotten to come here, and she had no idea why.