The vise in Grayson’s chest loosened. Not much. Not enough. But at least he could breathe—and think. Not about the fact that Sheffield Grayson had finally referred to him as his son. Not about the role that kiss had played in setting off everything that followed: the bomb, Avery’s kidnapping, Sheffield Grayson’s death.
No, Grayson thought, as he always did, about what to do next. Some people could make mistakes. He wasn’t one of them.
Eventually—most likely within hours—Gigi and Savannah were going to come looking for the puzzle box. Without the faux USB key, they might never get it open, but Grayson knew better than to underestimate his sisters. If they opened the box to find it empty, they would be rightly suspicious.
His course of action decided, Grayson stole Xander’s fork, took a bite of pie, then placed a call to the concierge. “I need a plain leather journal,” he said. “Expensive, brown leather, lined paper, no brand name or other identifying marks on the leather or pages.”
CHAPTER 79
GRAYSON
While Grayson waited for his request to be fulfilled, he picked up his father’s fountain pen and a hotel notepad. Returning to the first page of Sheffield Grayson’s journal, Grayson studied the minute details of the man’s handwriting. His 1s were straight lines; the slight thickening of that line near the top suggested he made them from the bottom up. The 3s were curvy, the ends angled slightly inward. His 6 had a smaller loop than his 9; 4s and 5s had sharp corners, harsh angles.
I can do this. Pen in hand, Grayson replicated a single line of numbered text. Close, but not quite. He tried again. Again. By the time the hotel delivered the new journal, Grayson was ready. Slowly, painstakingly, he transcribed the numbered entries, creating a duplicate journal that stopped just after the girls’ grandmother’s funeral. Grayson placed the duplicate journal in the central compartment of the puzzle box, then began reassembling it. This time, he tucked the faux USB beneath a strip of wood on the outermost layer.
His sisters deserved that much, at least. A chance to open the box. A chance to decode the journal. A chance to know who their father had been—even if Grayson couldn’t allow them to learn it all.
Standing, he turned and gave the original journal to Nash. “Take this back to Hawthorne House,” he said. “Hide it in the Davenport at the bottom of the stairs hidden behind the bookshelves in the loft library.” Grayson looked down at his notebook, the one in which he’d decoded the original, and, after a moment, he handed it to Xander. “This, too.”
With both the original and the decoded transcription hidden away at Hawthorne House, the situation would be defused. The truth of Sheffield Grayson’s demise would remain hidden. Avery would be protected.
“Burn this,” he told his brothers finally, handing them the notepad on which he’d practiced Sheffield Grayson’s writing. One last string to tie up.
“You expect us to just leave you here?” Nash leaned against the doorframe, crossing his right foot lazily over his left ankle in a way that said I have all day, little brother.
“I’m fine,” Grayson told him. “Or at least, as fine as I ever am.”
For now, at least, he had purpose. The twins needed him still, in a way that his brothers didn’t, in a way they hadn’t for a very long time. The FBI needed to be dealt with. Then there was Acacia’s financial situation. Finding the offshore accounts referenced in the journal. Acquainting himself with the fine details of the twins’ trusts. Keeping an eye on Trowbridge.
“I want to stay,” Grayson told Nash. “For a few weeks at least. Someone has to keep Gigi out of trouble, and Savannah is carrying far too much.”
“She’s you,” Xander said emphatically. “But female!”
Nash pushed off the doorway. “Sounds like you’ll have your hands full… big brother.”
Within the hour, Nash and Xander were gone. Grayson looked down at the puzzle box, then he picked up his phone. He texted Gigi and got three texts back in rapid succession—and also, three pictures of cats.
Mom didn’t sleep at all last night. House is in shambles. The FBI is on MY LIST. That text was accompanied by a cat with narrowed, grumpy eyes. Next, there was a picture of a cat rolled up in brown paper like a submarine sandwich. Savannah has locked herself in her room. The final picture was a cat on its hind legs, with tongue stuck out and its eyes opened wide. PS: I’m outside your hotel right now. You are very popular with the valets.
Grayson almost grinned. In the elevator, on the way down to fetch her, he received a fourth text—no cat picture this time. PPS: I like your friend!