The extravagance didn’t.
My nephew was the closest thing I will ever have to a son. Grayson could hear the words like Sheffield Grayson was standing right beside him.
“Look, ‘Grayson,’” Gigi said cheerfully, “we could stand here debating whether or not you’re going to come in or whether or not my plan is pure genius, or we could jump straight to the part where you give in.” Gigi ducked out of view and popped back up a moment later holding what appeared to be a very large housecat that resembled a small leopard. “This is Katara. She’s a sexy beast that loves cuddles but will scratch you if the situation calls for it.”
Grayson banished the memory of his father’s voice. The second he stepped across the threshold, the cat leapt out of Gigi’s arms and took off in one direction, while Gigi bounded off in another.
“Where are you going?” Grayson called after her.
“Party!” she called back, like that was an answer. “I know someone who can help.”
CHAPTER 19
GRAYSON
As he followed Gigi, Grayson committed the house’s floorplan to memory. A pair of bold, abstract paintings hung in the hall to the left of the foyer. As he and Gigi passed them, Grayson noted the small bronze plaques affixed to the wall beneath the massive canvases.
Savannah, age 3, one read. And the other: Gigi, age 3.
Not abstract paintings, then. Children’s paintings. Up close, it was clear there was no method to the brushstrokes, no mastery of white space or visual metaphor. The paintings simply were.
Grayson ripped his gaze from the wall.
“Two things,” Gigi declared when she stopped in front of a door at the end of the corridor. “Don’t interrupt. And don’t comment on the music.” She threw open the door.
The first thing Grayson saw was himself. Mirrors. Three of the four walls of the massive room were lined with mirrored panes, ceiling to floor. The music Gigi had referenced was classical—and loud. At first glance, it would have been easy to mistake the space for a dance studio, if not for the markings on the floor and the hoop.
This was a half-court. Basketball. A girl stood on the free-throw line. Pale blonde hair braided back from her face framed her head like a wreath. Or a crown. She wasn’t dressed for sports. A pleated silver skirt hit just below her knees. She was barefoot, a pair of black heels beside her on the line. On her other side, there was a rack of balls.
As Grayson watched, the girl—presumably Gigi’s fraternal twin—sank three shots in a row.
Don’t interrupt, Gigi had advised him. And don’t comment on the music. It seemed to be blasting from all sides. Tchaikovsky, he recognized.
When there were four balls left, the girl in the silver skirt took three steps back. She picked up a ball and sent it arcing high, straight into the basket.
Three balls left. Two. By the last shot, she was back past the three-point line, and the music had built to a painful crescendo. Nothing but net.
Abruptly, the music cut off. And just as abruptly, Savannah Grayson stalked toward them—and past them—without a word.
“Her room’s this way,” Gigi announced helpfully.
They followed Savannah all the way back down the long hall, only to have the door to her room shut in their faces.
“She’ll be out in a minute,” Gigi translated. “And she says it’s very nice to meet you.”
“Patio.” That word was issued from the other side of the door. Savannah’s voice was high and clear, but her intonation was almost… familiar. “Ten minutes.”
“So it has been spoken,” Gigi intoned beside Grayson in a stage whisper. “And so it shall be.”
The patio was covered, tiled, and larger than most homes. Grayson counted seating for thirty. There was a full outdoor kitchen despite the fact that the actual kitchen was visible through four sets of double glass doors. Twin tile staircases stretched up to a second story of outdoor seating.
To his own annoyance, Grayson caught himself staring at the pool. It was wide in some parts, narrower in others, and curved like a river around twin palm trees, each of which sat opposite a firepit. The water was dark blue, the pool lit, even in the daytime.
A treacherous part of Grayson’s mind conjured up the image of his younger self swimming. He tried to direct his attention elsewhere, but his gaze caught on the pool’s edge—and two sets of tiny handprints immortalized in cement.
“Let me do the talking,” Gigi advised as the sound of heels clicking against tile announced her twin’s arrival.