“The evidence I stole,” I picked up, then paused. “Evidence of what?”
“Is in the darkest hole,” Jameson continued. “Light shall reveal all I writ upon the…” He trailed off, and in the back of my head, something clicked.
“There’s a word missing,” I said.
“And it rhymes with all.”
An instant later, Jameson was in motion—and so was I. We ran back, through corridor after corridor, to Toby’s abandoned wing. We came to a stop just outside the door. Jameson looked at me as he stepped over the threshold.
Light shall reveal all I writ upon the…
“Wall,” Jameson whispered, like he’d lifted the word directly from my thoughts. He was breathing hard—hard enough to make me think that his heart was pounding even faster than mine.
“Which wall?” I asked, stepping up beside him.
Slowly, Jameson turned, three hundred and sixty degrees. He didn’t answer my question, so I threw out another one.
“Invisible ink?”
“Now you’re thinking like a Hawthorne.” Jameson closed his eyes. I could practically feel him vibrating with energy.
My entire body was doing the same. “Light shall reveal all.”
Jameson’s eyelids flew open, and he turned again, until we were facing each other. “Heiress, we’re going to need a black light.”
CHAPTER 13
As it turned out, we needed more than one black light—and the member of the Hawthorne family in possession of seven of them was Xander. The three of us lined Toby’s suite with them. We turned the overhead lights off, and what I saw took me nearly to my knees.
Toby hadn’t written a message on the wall of his bedroom. He’d written tens of thousands of words across all the walls in the suite. Toby Hawthorne had kept a diary. His whole life was documented on the walls of his wing of Hawthorne House. He couldn’t have been more than seven or eight when he’d started writing.
Jameson and Xander fell silent beside me as the three of us read. The tone of Toby’s writing started off completely at odds with everything else we’d found—the drugs, the message we’d decoded, “A Poison Tree.” That Toby had been seething with anger. But Young Toby? He sounded more like Xander. There was an unbridled energy to everything he wrote. He talked about conducting experiments, some of them involving explosions. He adored his older sisters. He spent entire days disappearing into the walls of the House. He worshipped his father.
What changed? That was the question I asked myself as I read faster and faster, speeding through Toby’s twelfth year, his thirteenth, his fourteenth, his fifteenth. Shortly after his sixteenth birthday, I came to the exact moment when everything changed.
All that entry said was: They lied.
It took months—maybe years—before Toby actually put into words what that lie was. What he’d discovered, why he was angry. When I got to that confession, my entire body went leaden.
“Avery?” Xander stopped what he was doing and turned to look at me. Jameson was still reading at warp speed. He must have already read the secret that had turned me to stone, but his laser focus had remained uncompromised. He was on the hunt—and my body felt like it was shutting down.
“You okay there, champ?” Xander asked me, coming to put a hand on my shoulder. I barely felt it.
I couldn’t take another step. I couldn’t read another word. Because the lie that Toby Hawthorne had referenced, the secrets he mentioned in his poem?
They had to do with who he was.
“Toby was adopted.” I turned to look at Xander. “Nobody knew. Not Toby. Not his sisters. No one. Your grandmother faked a pregnancy. When Toby was sixteen, he found something. Proof. I don’t know what.” I couldn’t stop talking. I couldn’t slow down. “They adopted him in secret. He wasn’t even sure it was legal.”
“Why would anyone keep an adoption a secret?” Xander sounded truly baffled.
That was a good question, but I could barely process it, because all I could think, over and over again, was that if Toby Hawthorne wasn’t biologically related to the Hawthorne family, then he didn’t share one ounce of their DNA.
And neither would his child.
“His handwriting…” I choked out the words. It was on the walls, all around me—and now that I was looking for it, I recognized something I should have noticed the moment the writing had changed from a childish scrawl.
From the time he was twelve or thirteen, Toby Hawthorne had started writing in an odd fashion—a very distinctive mix of print and cursive. I’d seen that handwriting before.
I have a secret, I could hear my mother telling me less than a week before she died. About the day you were born.
CHAPTER 14
Late into the night, I sat in the massive leather chair behind Tobias Hawthorne’s desk, staring at my birth certificate, at the signature the billionaire had highlighted. The name was my father’s, but the handwriting was the same as the writing on the walls of Toby’s wing.
A distinctive mix of print and cursive.
Toby Hawthorne signed my birth certificate. I couldn’t say those words out loud. All I could do was think about Ricky Grambs. By the age of seven, I’d been done letting him hurt me—but at six, I thought he hung the moon. He would breeze into town, pick me up, swing me around. He’d call me his girl and tell me that he’d gotten me a present. I’d fish through his pockets, and whatever I found there—a pen, loose change, a restaurant mint—I got to keep.
It took me years to realize that every piece of treasure he ever gave me was trash.
My vision blurred, and I blinked back tears, staring at that signature: Ricky’s name but Toby’s writing.
I have a secret about the day you were born. I could hear my mom, as clearly as if she were in the room with me. I have a secret. It was a game we had played my whole life. She was wonderful at guessing my secrets. I’d never guessed hers.
Now it was right there in front of me. Highlighted. “Toby Hawthorne signed my birth certificate.” It hurt to talk. It hurt to remember every game of chess I’d played with Harry.
Ricky Grambs hadn’t picked up the phone when my mother died. But Toby? He’d shown up within days. And if Toby was adopted, if he wasn’t biologically a Hawthorne, then the DNA test that Zara and her husband had run meant nothing. It no longer ruled out the simplest solution to the question of why Tobias Hawthorne had left his fortune to a stranger.
I wasn’t a stranger.
Why had “Harry” sought me out right after my mother’s death? Why had a Texas billionaire visited the New England diner where my mother worked when I was six years old? Why had Tobias Hawthorne left me his fortune?
Because his son is my father. Everything else—my birthday, my name, the entire puzzle the Hawthorne brothers and I had thought we’d solved—it was exactly what Jameson had called it down in the tunnel: misdirection.
I stood up, unable to stay in one place a moment longer. I hadn’t needed a father in a very long time. I’d learned to expect nothing. I’d stopped letting it hurt. But now all I could think about was that, yes, Harry used to scowl when I outmaneuvered him on the chess board, but his eyes had gleamed. He’d called me princess and horrible girl, and I’d called him old man.