If what we have now—if everything we have now—starts to feel like another competition between Grayson and me, like a game? I don’t trust myself not to play.
I slammed that door in my mind. “We’re looking for chess sets,” I said, focusing on that. “There is probably more than one. And while we’re looking…” I shot my best friend a pointed look. “Max can catch us up on the Xander situation.”
Better her romantic drama taking center stage than mine.
“Everything involving Xander is a situation,” Max hedged. “He specializes in situations!”
I scanned the boxes on the closest shelf, checking for chess sets. “True.” I waited, knowing that she would break.
“It’s… new.” Max squatted to stare at the lower shelves. “Like, really new. And you know I hate labels.”
“You love labels,” I told her, skimming my fingers across game after game. “You literally own multiple label makers.”
Chess set! Victorious, I pulled the box from the shelf and kept looking.
“The situation—Xander, me. It’s… fun. Are relationships supposed to be fun?”
I thought about hot-air balloons and helicopters and dancing barefoot on the beach.
“I mean, I’ve never actually been friends with a guy first,” Max continued. “Like, even in fiction, friends to lovers? Never my thing. I’m more star-crossed tragedy, supernatural soul mates, enemies to lovers. Epic, you know?”
“You don’t get much more epic than Hawthornes,” Libby told her, and then, as if she’d caught herself, she straightened, turned her attention back to the shelf, and pulled out chess set number two.
“Do you know what Xander did when I had my first college test?” Max was rambling now. “Before things even got romantic? He sent me a book bouquet.”
“What’s a book bouquet?” Libby replied.
“Exactly!” Max said. “Mother-faxing exactly.”
“You like him,” I translated. “A lot.”
“Let’s just say I am definitely reconsidering my favorite tropes.” Max popped up to standing, a wooden box held in her hand. “Number three.”
Ultimately, there were six. I scoured the boxes, looking for anything scribbled onto cardboard, etched into metal, or carved into wood. Nothing. I verified that no pieces were missing, then reached into my leather satchel and pulled out the flashlight. As far as I could tell, it was just a normal flashlight, but I’d been Hawthorne-adjacent long enough to know that there were dozens of kinds of invisible ink. That thought in mind, I shined the light on each of the six chessboards. After that, I inspected the individual pieces. Nothing.
Frustrated, I looked up—and saw Grayson in the doorway, backlit. In my mind, I could still see him putting an arm around Eve. He’s wet. She doesn’t care.
I stood.
“Xander’s looking for you,” Grayson told Max dryly. “I suggested he text, but he claims that’s cheating.”
Max turned to me. “Xander’s my ride to the airport.”
I hated this. “Are you sure you have to go?” I asked, dread heavy in the pit of my stomach.
“Do you want me to fail out of college, thereby ruining my chances at grad-school-slash-med-school-slash-law-school?”
I let out a long huff of air. “Oren assigned someone to go with you?”
“I have been assured that my new bodyguard is exceptionally broody with hidden layers.” Max hugged me. “Call me. Constantly. And you!” she said as she turned and walked past Grayson. “Watch where you’re aiming those cheekbones, buddy.”
And just like that, my best friend was gone.
Grayson stayed in the doorway, like there was an invisible line just over the threshold. “What’s all of this?” he asked, looking at the mess spread out in front of me.
Your grandfather left me a game. I didn’t tell Grayson that. I couldn’t. I needed to find Jameson and tell him first.
Libby took my silence as her cue to exit, squeezing past Grayson as she did.
“I talked to Eve last night.” Grayson must have decided not to push me on the chess sets. “She’s struggling.”
So was I. So was Jameson. So was he.
“I think it would help her,” Grayson said, “to see Toby’s old wing.”
I remembered Eve’s comment about Hawthorne secrets. If there was one place in Hawthorne House rife with secrets, it was the deserted wing that Tobias Hawthorne had kept bricked up for years.
“I know that Toby means something to you, Avery.” Grayson stepped toward me, across that invisible line into the room. “I can imagine that letting Eve see his wing might feel like an intrusion on something that was just yours until now.”
I looked away and sat back down among the chess pieces. “It’s fine.”
Grayson moved forward again and crouched beside me, his forearms braced against his knees, his suit jacket falling open. “I know you, Avery. And I know what it feels like to have a stranger show up at Hawthorne House and threaten the very ground beneath your feet.”
I’d been that stranger for him.
Pushing back against what felt like a lifetime of memories, I focused on Grayson in the here and now. “I’ll make you a deal,” I said. Jameson was wagers; Grayson was deals. “I’ll show Eve Toby’s wing if you tell me how you’re doing. How you’re really doing.”
I expected him to look away, but he didn’t. Silvery gray eyes stayed locked on mine, never blinking, never wavering. “Everything hurts.” Only Grayson Hawthorne could say that and still sound utterly bulletproof. “It hurts all the time, Avery, but I know the man I was raised to be.”
CHAPTER 27
I told Grayson that he could take Eve to Toby’s wing, and he informed me that that wasn’t the deal. I’d said that I would show Eve Toby’s wing. I deeply suspected he was headed for the pool.
Packing up the satchel and taking it with me, I held up my end of the bargain.
Eve’s pace slowed as Toby’s wing came into view. There was still rubble visible from the brick wall that the old man had erected decades ago.
“Tobias Hawthorne closed off this wing the summer that Toby disappeared,” I told Eve. “When we found out that Toby was still alive, we came here looking for clues.”
“What did you find?” Eve asked, something like awe in her tone as we stepped through the remains of bricks and into Toby’s foyer.
“Several things.” I couldn’t blame Eve for wanting to know. “For starters, this.” I knelt to trigger the release on one of the marble tiles. Beneath, there was a metal compartment, empty but for a poem engraved on the metal.
“‘A Poison Tree,’” I said. “An eighteenth-century poem written by a poet named William Blake.”
Eve dropped to her knees. She trailed her hand over the poem, reading it silently without so much as taking or expelling a breath.
“Long story short,” I said, “teenaged Toby seemed to identify with the feeling of wrath—and what it cost to hide it.”
Eve didn’t respond. She just stayed there, her fingers on the poem, her eyes unblinking. It was like I’d ceased to exist for her, like the entire world had.