Leaving Gigi to her search, Grayson squatted to observe the tangled fringe on the rug. He flipped the corner back and was rewarded with the key to the desk.
“You are magic,” Gigi declared. She slid across the desk, ballerina leapt to his side, snatched the key from his hand, and had the desk drawers open in three seconds flat.
“Victory!”
Grayson crossed to her side of the desk. There, taped to the bottom of the drawer, was a piece of paper containing at least forty passwords.
Gigi scanned them. “This one’s labeled DTC.” She pointed to a password three down from the top, which began with those three letters. “Desktop computer.”
Grayson considered trying to get between Gigi and the computer but assessed his likelihood of success as poor. Instead, he slipped his phone out of his pocket, took a picture of the passwords, closed and locked the drawers, and returned the key to its original location under the rug.
“Covering our tracks,” he told Gigi. And assuring that I’m the one with the rest of the passwords. As an attorney, tech-savvy or not, Trowbridge would almost certainly have privileged documents password-protected or saved to a secure server. For now, the computer would keep Gigi busy, allowing Grayson to tend to other matters.
One couldn’t grow up in Hawthorne House without learning to spot a shelf that wasn’t just a shelf. It didn’t take Grayson long to locate a hinge—or the release. As soon as he’d triggered it, the shelf opened like a door. Behind it, built into a recess on the wall, was a safe.
Grayson glanced back at Gigi, who was so thoroughly immersed in searching the computer that she noticed nothing. She’s got an external hard drive. Grayson registered that as he returned his attention to the safe. Unlike Gigi, he hadn’t learned to pick locks out of boredom. The walls of his childhood playroom had been lined with them, each one a puzzle, a challenge. And when it came to challenges, a Hawthorne never really had a choice. All four brothers knew how to crack certain types of combination locks.
The only question was if this was one of them.
Grayson brought his hand up to the dial, and then he heard something. Voices, out in the hall. Without a moment’s hesitation, he righted the bookshelf, obscuring the safe. He darted to the door, flipped the lock, then looked back at Gigi, who was staring at the shelves now obscuring the safe, which she had most definitely noticed.
The voices in the hallway drew closer.
Grayson met Gigi’s eyes. She shook her head, then gestured emphatically to the computer and the external hard drive. Her meaning was clear: She wasn’t done. He heard the distinct sound of a key being slipped into a lock. In a single motion, Grayson bounded across the room, grabbed Gigi, and sank with her to the floor behind the desk. She wiggled out of his grasp enough to dart a hand up and turn the monitor off just as the door to the office opened.
“You wanted privacy.” That voice was male, but it did not belong to Kent Trowbridge. “You’ve got it.”
“I just needed a moment to breathe.” Savannah. Grayson recognized her voice instantly. Which suggests the other belongs to a Trowbridge—just not the father.
“You’re breathing just fine, baby.”
Grayson did not trust the boy’s tone. He turned his head slightly, silently, leaning so that he could barely see past the edge of the desk. Duncan Trowbridge hooked an arm around Savannah from behind, placing a hand flat on her stomach. That hand creeped upward.
“You could be nicer to people, you know,” Duncan murmured. “Including me.”
Grayson’s jaw tensed. He had no right to watch this, so he averted his eyes just as Duncan Trowbridge’s hand made it to the strap of Savannah’s top—and began working that strap down.
“I’m nice enough.” Savannah’s tone could have cut glass, but she didn’t step away from the boy. Grayson would have heard it if she had.
“Show me how nice you can be.”
“Come on, Duncan.” Now there was a step, an audible click against the part of the floor that wasn’t covered by the rug.
“You’re my girlfriend, Savannah.”
Grayson heard another step—this one, Duncan’s. Closing in on her. Bastard.
“You’re beautiful,” the boy continued, and the words struck Grayson as accusatory.
“We should get back to the party.” Savannah didn’t sound distressed. She sounded like a person with an ironclad grip on control.
“You’re the one who said you wanted privacy.” Duncan seemed to be trying to make those words low and inviting, but they must not have had the effect he intended. “What, you wanted privacy from me, too?”