I ended up in the backyard instead of the front—if you could even call it a yard. The grounds were immaculately kept. There was a fountain. A statue garden. A greenhouse. And stretching into the distance, as far as I could see, land. Some of it was treed. Some was open. But it was easy enough, standing there and looking out, to imagine that a person who walked off to the horizon might never make their way back.
“If yes is no and once is never, then how may sides does a triangle have?” The question came from above me. I looked up and saw a boy sitting on the edge of a balcony overhead, balanced precariously on a wrought-iron railing. Drunk.
“You’re going to fall,” I told him.
He smirked. “An interesting proposition.”
“That wasn’t a proposition,” I said.
He offered me a lazy grin. “There’s no shame in propositioning a Hawthorne.” He had hair darker than Grayson’s and lighter than Xander’s. He wasn’t wearing shirt.
Always a good decision in the middle of winter, I thought acerbically, but I couldn’t keep my gaze from traveling downward from his face. His torso was lean, his stomach defined. He had a long, thin scar that ran from collarbone to hip.
“You must be Mystery Girl,” he said.
“I’m Avery,” I corrected. I’d come out here to get away from the Hawthornes and their grief. There wasn’t a trace of a care on this boy’s face, like life was one grand lark. Like he wasn’t grieving just as much as the people inside were.
“Whatever you say, M.G.,” he retorted. “Can I call you M.G., Mystery Girl?”
I crossed my arms. “No.”
He brought his feet up to the railing and stood. He wobbled, and I had a moment of chilling prescience. He’s grieving, and he’s too high up. I hadn’t allowed myself to self-destruct when my mom died. That didn’t mean I hadn’t felt the call.
He shifted his weight to one foot and held the other out.
“Don’t!” Before I could say anything else, the boy twisted and grabbed the railing with his hands, holding himself vertical, feet in the air. I could see the muscles in his back tensing, rippling over his shoulder blades, as he lowered himself… and dropped.
He landed right beside me. “You shouldn’t be out here, M.G.”
I wasn’t the shirtless one who’d just jumped off a balcony. “Neither should you.”
I wondered if he could tell how fast my heart was beating. I wondered if his was racing at all.
“If I do what I should no more often than I say what I shouldn’t”—his lips twisted—“then what does that make me?”
Jameson Hawthorne, I thought. Up close, I could make out the color of his eyes: a dark, fathomless green.
“What,” he repeated intently, “does that make me?”
I stopped looking at his eyes. And his abs. And his haphazardly gelled hair. “Drunk,” I said, and then, because I could sense an annoying comeback coming, I added two more words. “And two.”
“What?” Jameson Hawthorne said.
“The answer to your first riddle,” I told him. “If yes is no and once is never, then the number of sides a triangle has… is… two.” I drew out my reply, not bothering to explain how I’d arrived at my answer.
“Touché, M.G.” Jameson ambled past me, brushing his bare arm lightly over mine as he did. “Touché.”
CHAPTER 9
I stayed out back a few minutes longer. Nothing about this day felt real. And tomorrow, I’d go back to Connecticut, a little richer, hopefully, and with a story to tell, and I’d probably never see any of the Hawthornes again.
I’d never have a view like this again.
By the time I returned to the Great Room, Jameson Hawthorne had miraculously managed to find a shirt—and a suit jacket. He smiled in my direction and gave a little salute. Beside him, Grayson stiffened, his jaw muscles tensing.
“Now that everyone is here,” one of the lawyers said, “let’s get started.”
The three lawyers stood in triangle formation. The one who’d spoken shared Alisa’s dark hair, brown skin, and self-assured expression. I assumed he was the Ortega in McNamara, Ortega, and Jones. The other two—presumably Jones and McNamara—stood to either side.
Since when does it take four lawyers to read a will? I thought.
“You are here,” Mr. Ortega said, projecting his voice to the corners of the room, “to hear the last will and testament of Tobias Tattersall Hawthorne. Per Mr. Hawthorne’s instructions, my colleagues will now distribute letters he has left for each of you.”
The other men began to make the rounds of the room, handing out envelopes one by one.
“You may open these letters when the reading is concluded.”
I was handed an envelope. My full name was written in calligraphy on the front. Beside me, Libby looked up at the lawyer, but he passed over her and went on delivering envelopes to the other occupants of the room.
“Mr. Hawthorne stipulated that all of the following individuals must be physically present for the reading of this will: Skye Hawthorne, Zara Hawthorne-Calligaris, Nash Hawthorne, Grayson Hawthorne, Jameson Hawthorne, Alexander Hawthorne, and Ms. Avery Kylie Grambs of New Castle, Connecticut.”
I felt about as conspicuous as I would have if I’d looked down and discovered that I wasn’t wearing clothes.
“Since you are all here,” Mr. Ortega continued, “we may begin.”
Beside me, Libby slipped her hand into mine.
“I, Tobias Tattersall Hawthorne,” Mr. Ortega read, “being of sound body and mind, decree that my worldly possessions, including all monetary and physical assets, be disposed of as follows.
“To Andrew and Lottie Laughlin, for years of loyal service, I bequeath a sum of one hundred thousand dollars apiece, with lifelong, rent-free tenancy granted in Wayback Cottage, located on the western border of my Texas estate.”
The older couple I’d seen earlier leaned into each other. All I could think was: ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS. The Laughlins’ presence wasn’t mandatory for the reading of the will, and they’d just been given one hundred thousand dollars. Apiece!
I tried very hard to remember how to breathe.
“To John Oren, head of my security detail, who has saved my life more times and in more ways than I can count, I leave the contents of my toolbox, held currently in the offices of McNamara, Ortega, and Jones, as well as a sum of three hundred thousand dollars.”
Tobias Hawthorne knew these people, I told myself, heart thumping. They worked for him. They mattered to him. I’m nothing.
“To my mother-in-law, Pearl O’Day, I leave an annuity of one hundred thousand dollars a year, plus a trust for medical expenses as set forth in the appendix. All jewelry belonging to my late wife, Alice O’Day Hawthorne, shall pass to her mother upon my death, to be distributed as she sees fit upon hers.”
Nan harrumphed. “Don’t you go getting any ideas,” she ordered the room at large. “I’m going to outlive you all.”
Mr. Ortega smiled, but then that smile faltered. “To…” He paused and then tried again. “To my daughters, Zara Hawthorne-Calligaris and Skye Hawthorne, I leave the funds necessary to pay off all debts accrued as of the date and time of my death.” Mr. Ortega paused again, his lips pushing themselves together. The other two lawyers stared straight ahead, avoiding looking at any member of the Hawthorne family directly.