alright you guys...
get ready!
TIME FOR A MURDER MYSTERY
I'm sorry to everyone who's been reading Apparent. But I haven't had any feedback on what to do with the story, so I may just pull it down. This is going to be taking up much of my time anyway, so I don't believe Apparent will work out. I'm really sorry you guys :'( if you'd like more info as to why, read the author's note that I've pasted into every chapter of that fic.
okay so some clarification for this fic!
-NOT COMPLETELY CANON COMPLIANT.
(for these reasons):
-avery is currently single (jameson x avery is not endgame ship).
-max is living in hawthorne house (I can't remember if she is canonically but I don't think so).
-I don't think the murder of Tobias Hawthorne is canon, right?
-for the sake of later chapters, jameson's dad, ian, is currently living at Vantage (please tell me y'all have read book 4).
Pretty much everything else is the same. (feel free to correct me if I'm wrong there.)
That should be it! Thanks guys! Please review and let me know how this goes!
peace out!
—GRAYSON—
For whatever reason, Grayson Hawthorne was trying far too hard to stop himself from slurping spaghetti noodles.
It was an old habit, and an immature one at that. But it was very, very difficult not to engage when Xander was doing it across the table, and Grayson could barely keep a straight face.
He took a sip of his wine, trying to remain composed, and attempted to convince himself of how very unfunny this was. Perhaps if he thought about sad things—kittens in the rain, ruined suit jackets, that sort of thing.
Xander slurped up another noodle, this time quite violently and with more sound effects than needed, and Grayson swallowed as fast as possible to keep himself from spraying wine across the table.
"How's the pasta?" Nash asked worriedly, and Grayson remembered that his brother had volunteered to make the dinner and was liable to dissolve into tears if anyone disliked it.
"Excellent, Nash," he replied, twisting a few white sauce-covered noodles onto his fork. "As always. And, of course, my complements to you, Libby."
"I mostly guided Nash," Libby replied. "But thank you, Gray."
"This spaghetti is awesome!" Xander proclaimed enthusiastically, sucking several more noodles into his mouth with an exaggerated slurping noise.
"Xan," Grayson said sharply, struggling not to let the corner of his mouth twitch. "Please be more civilized."
"But it's fun," Xander protested, and of course, Jameson chose that moment to join his brother in slurping. Grayson couldn't disguise a snort, and, next to him, Avery sighed.
"You boys are such slobs," she reprimanded, but she was smiling.
"I've always liked messy boys," Max remarked from next to Xander. "Organized people are so boring."
"Excuse me," Grayson said, feigning offense. "I am simply devoted to order."
"Still boring."
Grayson arched an eyebrow. "That's rather hurtful."
The door to the dining room opened, and John Oren stepped into the room. "Miss Grambs?"
Avery looked up.
"Might I have a word?" Oren asked. "I'm afraid it cannot wait."
Avery stood up and followed him out of the room, everyone staring after her as the door shut with a click.
"That hasn't happened in a while," Xander pointed out. "What do you guys think is going on?"
"Oren's too serious," Jameson said dismissively. "It's probably nothing."
"I dunno, you guys." Nash sounded worried. "It sounds like it might be big."
Even if it was a major announcement, Grayson wasn't sure it would faze him. He was not easily surprised, and even if it happened, he could keep an exceptional poker face—although Xander's antics did not help him maintain that reputation.
He twirled his pasta absentmindedly on his fork, not really in the mood for dinner anymore. Xander's slurping had become half-hearted, and Nash was clasping Libby's hand tightly.
It was almost fifteen minutes before Avery returned, holding a newspaper, her hands trembling so slightly that Grayson was sure she was trying to stop them from doing so.
"What's wrong, Heiress?" Jameson asked.
She said nothing, only dropped the newspaper onto the table and walked out of the room.
All six of them stared at the paper, silently asking who should read it first. When no one moved, Grayson stood and picked it up, his heart seeming to drop out of his chest as he read.
HAWTHORNE SCANDAL EMERGES
Two years ago, billionaire Tobias Hawthorne passed away at the age of eighty-eight, leaving behind his twenty-eight-billion-dollar fortune, two daughters, and four grandsons. Mr. Hawthorne was given an opulent funeral and laid to rest in Lone Star Cemetery, and the manner of death on his certificate was listed as "natural causes."
Recently, however, new information has come to light—the Houston Chronicle was mailed and asked to publish an encrypted letter, the return address of which read "from the killer of Tobias Hawthorne."
Police have opened an inquest, and the chief has stated that they will begin questioning of potential suspects on October 17th, after they have searched the site of death for evidence.
Many speculate that a member of Mr. Hawthorne's own family is the perpetrator, and police are willing to back the theory, as Hawthorne House is equipped with very high security. However, others theorize that Avery Grambs, heiress to Mr. Hawthorne's fortune, may be guilty, despite her having virtually no connection to the billionaire until after his death.
A number of questions remain to be answered. Why has the killer chosen now to reveal themselves? How did Tobias Hawthorne really die?
And, of course, the essential question: who killed him?
A photocopy of the letter can be found below.
The words of the letter were nonsensical, and Grayson couldn't help but think that it looked much like some of the clues that his grandfather had used in games.
yiq pkiqokp Kwvpkimhb'n tbwpk vwm hwpqmwf?
yiq pkiqokp vmiho.
ni kbfj gb Oit.
SI
Trying not to let his face betray any emotion, Grayson handed the paper to Nash and sat back down, raking a hand through his hair. This was much more impactful than he'd thought.
So impactful, in fact, that it was going to break him apart.
Because he knew.
And now, everyone else was going to.
Grayson had held his tongue when the coroner came to examine his grandfather's body, when he spoke at the funeral, when the casket was lowered into the earth. The true nature of the death was a trivial thing—what did it matter? As long as the old man was gone, who cared how he had died?
After Avery arrived, he'd wondered if he should come clean. It would at least divert attention from the inheritance debacle, give Avery some time away from the press. Besides, Grayson wanted to get the secret off his chest—but how could he, when it meant risking everything?
He took a deep breath, reassured himself that everything would be fine. After all, if he didn't tell the police anything, they couldn't trace the murder, right?
But Grayson wasn't the only one who knew. There was exactly one other individual who had the same information he did, and if that secret got out into the world, it would be the end of the Hawthornes. And that person had a much weaker will than Grayson, although he wasn't sure his own was going to hold up for long.
Sooner or later, someone was going to crack.
911, read Avery's text on his phone the next morning. Everyone meet in the conference room in five minutes. We have to talk about this.
Grayson set his violin in its case and zipped it up as another text came in. That means you too, Jamie.
I'm coming, Jameson's text insisted, adding an eye roll emoji on the end.
Grayson wasn't entirely sure he liked this group chat. It was too chaotic—it consisted of all four Hawthornes, Avery, Libby, and Max. And Xander and Max alone could have burned the House down with water, so having them in a group chat caused Grayson's phone to vibrate almost constantly.
He placed the device back into his pocket, going over to the mirror in the practice room to ensure everything about him was composed and unrevealing—Grayson didn't trust himself not to accidentally let something slip. That was how the old man had taught his grandsons to survive—trust no one, not even yourself.
The phone started buzzing again, but Grayson ignored it, instead stepping out into the hall and making his way toward the conference room. The click of his shoes on the marble echoed through the corridor, which Grayson rather enjoyed—it made him sound ominous, important.
When he reached the conference room, only Avery, Nash, and Libby were present, the latter two sitting in the same chair. Libby was on Nash's lap, with her fiancé's arms wrapped around her waist.
"Hi, Gray," Nash said, his voice more subdued than usual. "This is pretty crazy, huh?"
Grayson nodded. "I must confess I'm utterly shocked."
"You don't look utterly shocked," Avery remarked. "You look bored, actually. Or maybe royally ticked off."
Nash laughed. "He always looks like that."
"That's his default expression," Libby agreed, and Grayson had to try hard to keep from cracking a smile. Nothing should be funny right now.
Jameson, holding a bottle of whiskey, sauntered into the room, collapsing into a chair. "Hey, guys."
"Jamie," Nash sighed. "You know you can't drink every time somethin' upsets you, right?"
"I'm not drinking because I'm upset," Jameson insisted. "I'm drinking because I haven't had whiskey for a week, and I like variety. Do you want any, Nash?"
Nash wrinkled his nose. "Nah. Whiskey's not for me. Too strong."
"I could find you some wine—"
"This early in the morning, Jamie?" Grayson asked. "I don't believe it's wise. Besides, if the police turn up to interrogate us, do you really want to be drunk?"
"We're here!" gasped a voice, and Xander barreled into the room, Max close behind him. Both of them sat down, Xander so vigorously that his chair fell over.
"Xan," Grayson sighed. "This is an incredibly serious occasion."
"I'm generally a very excited person," Xander defended, pulling his chair back upright and sitting down with his arms crossed.
"Yes, you are. But that seems irrelevant to the fact that our grandfather was apparently murdered."
Avery crossed the room and locked the door, then returned to her seat at the head of the table. She looked confident, authoritative, and Grayson couldn't fathom how she wasn't afraid. Even he, he who was never afraid, was terrified.
Then again, Avery was good at hiding her emotions. She, like Grayson, never cried, never shouted, only spoke in that calm, level voice and fixed you with that burning stare that told you exactly what she thought of you.
She was looking at him now, her eyes expressionless, empty, and then her gaze swept to Jameson, Xander, Max, never changing for anyone. Then she spoke.
"Did one of you do it?"
They all sat there in stunned silence, which lasted for what felt like eons but was probably about thirty seconds, and then Nash found his voice. "Why would you say somethin' like that?"
Avery shrugged. "Everyone is a suspect. My policy on murder mysteries is guilty until proven innocent."
"Even Max and Libby?" Xander asked, squeezing Max's hand. "They'd never heard of us until after the old man died. Neither had you."
"The police will probably still interview us," Avery told him. "They can't rule out anyone without evidence—they might think I knew I was going to inherit the fortune and killed your grandfather to get it sooner. Circumstances alone aren't enough to exonerate anyone. That includes me."
"You were literally in another state when it happened," Jameson pointed out. "Sure, I see your point, but it would have been physically impossible for you to have killed the old man."
"None of us believe you could have done it, Avery," Grayson said firmly. "And if the police think differently, there'll be six of us to deal with."
"No one's arresting my bestie," Max added.
"That goes for all the girls," Nash said. "But it ain't gonna be so easy for the rest of us to get cleared."
"Then we've gotta figure out who actually did it!" Xander declared, still sounding too excited for such a serious situation. "I mean, we eat mysteries for breakfast! Who says we can't do it?"
"We eat cereal for breakfast," Grayson pointed out.
"It's an expression—"
"And the police might not want us to do their job for them," Avery cut in. "But you're right, Xan. No one's been trained to solve puzzles as well as you four have."
"We should start with the letter in the newspaper," Grayson decided. "I've worked with ciphers—I can decode it if you'd like, Avery."
"That's fine," she agreed. "Jamie, Xan, Max—could you go check out the old man's room? I don't know if there's still evidence there, but no one's touched it in a while."
Jameson nodded. "We'll figure this out, Heiress."
"What do you want me and Nash to do?" Libby asked.
"I need you to watch the gates to the House," Avery said. "The press will turn up any minute, if they haven't already. Security should keep them out, but if they ask too many questions, make something up that avoids mentioning any potential suspects. You two are the best talkers here."
"What are you going to do?" Max asked.
"I'm going to go to the old man's grave," Avery told her. "That's one reason I need someone to keep the press out—so they don't see me leave."
"You have to be careful," Grayson insisted. "If the killer is out there somewhere, they could go for you too. I don't think you should go alone, Avery. They could have sent that letter from anywhere."
"Gray's right, Heiress," Jameson agreed. "If they killed the old man for his fortune, they might try and take you out next. I'm not saying that's why they did it, but it seems like the most believable motive."
Avery sighed. "It's okay, boys. I'll have a chauffeur."
"Who will be sitting in the car on his phone while you stand on the old man's grave," Grayson retorted.
Her sigh was louder this time. "Fine, Gray, you come with me, since you're not doing much of anything. But I'll drive so you can work on the cipher."
She jerked her head toward the door. "Thank you, everyone. Let's go."
The cemetery was quiet, deserted, and the October sky was a vivid blue as Grayson and Avery stepped out of the car.
The day seemed too bright, too happy for the bombshell that had just been dropped on them, and Grayson wished it would rain, or at least that a cloud would cover the blindingly bright sun. It felt as though the world didn't recognize the pain he was about to go through.
"Where's his grave?" Avery asked, and Grayson scanned the cemetery, then jerked his head toward the southeast corner. "That way."
He gave her a wry smile. "Shouldn't be too hard to see."
"Why am I not surprised?" Avery deadpanned as her eyes found the obelisk, which stood at least ten feet above any other headstone in the cemetery.
"It's hard to be surprised by anything when you're a Hawthorne. Or closely associated with them."
They made their way over to the obelisk, stopping a few inches shy of the place where Tobias Hawthorne's feet probably were. Grayson didn't know about Avery, but he didn't want to walk over his grandfather's final resting place.
The obelisk was jet-black and made of polished marble, piercing the sky with a dark ferocity. The inscription read:
HERE LIES
TOBIAS TATTERSALL HAWTHORNE
1932-2020
THE GAME IS NEVER OVER
Both of them were silent for a moment, and all Grayson could think to say was, "When I die, could you please make sure I do not have this big of an obelisk?"
Avery laughed, and despite wanting everything to be gloomy and serious today, Grayson loved the sound, wanted it to continue forever. Somehow, it was different when she laughed.
"Let's search for clues," Avery decided. "I don't know if they're supposed to come this early in the game, but we should look regardless."
Grayson nodded. "I'd be on the lookout for secret compartments. The old man would have snuck them in any way he could."
She glanced sideways at him. "Have you not searched it before?"
He shook his head. "No, actually. I…I guess none of us really wanted to come here."
"Well, we can look now. Come on."
Avery stepped forward, and Grayson half-expected to see his grandfather's skeletal remains erupt out of the earth, ready to attack, but of course, nothing happened. Avery placed her hand on the marble, running her fingers over the smooth surface and scrutinizing the inscription as if it had greatly offended her.
Grayson went around to the back of the obelisk, careful to avoid stepping on the dirt over the coffin, and raked his gaze over the stone. The sun glinted off the obelisk, causing a harsh glare that made it almost impossible to see anything past light.
He placed a palm on the stone, feeling for anything out of the ordinary. But, in the six or seven feet of obelisk Grayson could reach, there was nothing.
"Do you see anything?" he asked Avery.
"Not over here," came her reply, and then the soft sound of her fingers trailing across the stone stopped abruptly.
"Avery?" Grayson asked, glancing at her from behind the obelisk.
"Come over here."
He went to stand by her, and Avery pointed up at the top of the obelisk, silhouetted against the sun. "See how there's a groove at the top? It'd be really hard to see if there wasn't light behind it, but it's up there."
Grayson squinted up at the sharp stone tip, realizing that there was indeed a faint groove, running all the way around the obelisk, about three inches below the top.
"The tip must come off," he murmured. "How are we going to get up there?"
"I'm going to climb on your shoulders," Avery replied.
"Isn't there any way to do this without getting my suit dirty?"
"We don't have another way up, so..."
Grayson sighed. "Can you at least take off your shoes?"
Avery gave him a half-smile. "Sure, Gray. We wouldn't want to damage your suit, after all."
She bent down and took off her tennis shoes, setting them down on the grass. "Okay, Gray, you're going to have to get down a little."
Hopefully, no one was watching, because this was rather mortifying, not to mention uncomfortable. Grayson steadied himself as Avery climbed up onto his shoulders, sitting down.
"Now stand up," Avery instructed. "As soon as you get your balance, I'm going to stand up, and if you fall over, so help me, I will land on you on purpose."
Grayson gritted his teeth as he straightened up, his shoulders already burning. Avery wasn't heavy, but it wouldn't have been an easy feat in any circumstances.
Avery slowly stood, holding onto the obelisk for support, and Grayson grabbed hold of her ankles, steadying her.
"Hurry," he begged as Avery ran her hands over the tip.
"What? You couldn't do this all day? I though you could bench press two hundred pounds."
"I can. But I don't regularly let people stand on top of me."
Grayson looked up as a grinding sound came from above, watching as Avery twisted the tip of the obelisk until it came off. Holding the tiny stone pyramid in one hand, she dipped the other into the obelisk and pulled out a white envelope.
"Keep the tip," she read out loud. "Okay, you can put me down now."
But before either of them could move, a shout rang through the cemetery. "Hey, you! Stop!"
Avery dropped the chunk of marble, which plummeted straight toward Grayson's face. Startled, he stumbled backward, but his foot came down on one of Avery's shoes, and Grayson lost his balance, landing flat on his back in the grass. Avery let out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a shriek, and approximately half a second later, she landed on top of Grayson, further knocking the wind out of him.
"Come on!" Avery gasped, scrambling off of Grayson and pulling him up. "We've got to get out of here!"
Grayson, slightly dazed, glanced up to see a very angry-looking man striding toward them, hands balled into fists. A nametag was pinned to his shirt—he probably worked at the cemetery, and here they were, vandalizing a grave.
Avery snatched her shoes out of the grass, and Grayson grabbed the black pyramid, taking off after Avery as she bolted toward the car. The cemetery employee shouted after them, but Grayson paid no attention, instead forcing himself to run faster.
When they reached the car, Avery leaped into the driver's seat, and Grayson decided that it would take too long to go around. Instead, he flung open the back door and scrambled in, climbing from the back to the passenger seat as Avery threw the car into reverse.
The tires squealed, and they shot out of the cemetery parking lot, speeding back toward Hawthorne House. Grayson grasped the handle above his door, chest heaving, his torso still aching where Avery had landed on him.
Neither of them spoke until they pulled into the driveway of Hawthorne House. Avery parked the car, and then she turned to Grayson. "That was close."
Grayson leaned back in his seat, realizing that neither of them had fastened their seat belts. "No kidding."
Her gaze fell on his chest, which was still rising and falling rapidly. "Sorry I landed on you. But I did say I would."
"It's fine," Grayson assured her. "We got what we came for."
Avery picked up the envelope, which she had thrown to the floor with her shoes. It was slightly crumpled on the corner now, and a smudge of dirt marred the paper, but it was intact.
The handwriting was the same messy, borderline hieroglyphic scrawl of the letter to the newspaper, and the front indeed read Keep The Tip. Below that was a smaller note, reading:
To be opened and read by Avery Kylie Grambs.
Show no one.
I MEAN IT
"Wonderful," Grayson sighed. "More cryptic notes. Of course."
He opened the door and stood there for a moment. "I suppose I'll leave you to it. I can go work on the cipher."
Grayson turned to leave, but Avery stopped him. "Gray."
He arched an eyebrow. "What?"
She cracked a smile. "Thank you."
—AVERY—
Once Grayson had left, Avery sat in the idling car, her mind racing as she slit the envelope's seal and pulled a piece of paper from inside. The words on it were written in the same untidy hand as on the front:
the rider, the fighter, the player, the brains,
the ancient tyrant is holding the reins
he cares nothing for their blood and their tears
he cares for his power, his wealth, and for fear
the eldest, the silent, the reckless, the kind
one hides a secret in a broken mind
one lives and lies for eternity's time
two watch from afar with unseeing eyes
one's had enough, one's mouth is sewn shut
one's hurting inside, one's afraid, but of what
the rider, the fighter, the player, the brains
one of the birds broke the lock on the cage
Avery's mind sped up, scanning the words over and over again, breaking them apart. This was, quite obviously, a clue. She didn't think it would provide any information about the murderer's identity—after all, if they were trying to make this into a game, they would take no chances this early on.
The first line was obvious. The rider, the fighter, the player, the brains—that referred to the Hawthorne brothers. The rider was Nash, the cowboy. The fighter probably could have been Grayson or Jameson, but it seemed to go in age order, since the brains was at the end, and that was clearly Xander. Avery assigned fighter to Grayson and player to Jameson, then moved on to the second line.
The ancient tyrant was Tobias Hawthorne, of course, and the two lines after that were supplementary. The fifth line was the brothers again, most likely still in age order.
On to the sixth line. One hides a secret in a broken mind.
Her first thought was Grayson, of course, but then Avery remembered that all four brothers had been emotionally abused to some degree by their grandfather. All of their minds could be considered broken. Perhaps some more than she knew.
Still, that meant one of the four was hiding something.
One lives and lies for eternity's time.
One brother was not only withholding the truth, but downright lying. So two of them had information—but which ones? And what did they know?
Two watch from afar with unseeing eyes.
This one was harder. Two brothers were aware of the crime, but they didn't see it, or they forced themselves not to. Why didn't they see? Why were they watching?
One's had enough—
That must have been the killer, then.
One's mouth is sewn shut—
Whoever had the secret couldn't—or wouldn't—reveal it. Could the secret-keeper and the killer be the same person?
One's hurting inside—
They all were.
One's afraid—
That too.
—but of what?
She didn't know. No one knew what, or who, they should be afraid of.
the rider, the fighter, the player, the brains
one of the birds broke the lock on the cage
So one of the boys was the killer.
Avery's blood had run cold, and she stared at the page in her hands without seeing it as her brain began to run through all the possible motivations, all the reasons why boys who seemed so sweet and brilliant and overwhelmingly good would kill their grandfather.
First, Nash. He'd been the heir apparent up until—what, eight years ago? Normally, being disinherited would have been a motive to kill the old man, but Nash had done it to himself. He'd given up the position to Grayson, forfeiting any right he had to the money. Nash had known the risks, and he'd taken them. But had he regretted it?
Grayson—he'd been the current heir apparent at the time of Tobias Hawthorne's death. Could he have done it to get the inheritance earlier? Perhaps he'd thought he would do a better job of running the Hawthorne family than his grandfather. It was absolutely true, so Avery decided she couldn't rule that out. Grayson's childhood had been awful, too, so revenge could have been a factor.
Next, Jameson. He wouldn't have stood a chance of inheriting anything—not anything major, at least—unless Grayson was out of the way first. As far as Avery knew, there had been no attempts to remove Grayson from his position, so Jameson wouldn't have stood to gain anything with his grandfather's death. Although he had been abused more significantly than Nash or Xander—it could have been an attempt to end Jameson's suffering at the hands of the old man. But that could have held true for Grayson, too, so Avery couldn't rule that out, either.
Finally, Xander—he'd been dead last in line for the inheritance. He would have had to take out at least two, if not all three, of his brothers to get the fortune, and Avery couldn't picture Xander killing even a spider without bursting into tears. She didn't know everything about the boys' childhood, but she was pretty sure that Xander was generally considered Tobias Hawthorne's favorite, though the old man probably hadn't been all that nice to him. The youngest Hawthorne seemed like the one with the least motivation to kill his grandfather, but all too often, the suspect with no motive turned out to be the murderer.
Avery sighed, leaning back against the seat. One thing was certain: she couldn't trust any of the boys. She couldn't trust anyone. If the motive had been the inheritance, who knew what they would do to get it from her?
You've lived with them for two years, said the voice in her head. If they wanted to kill you, they would have done it by now.
All of them lived with Tobias Hawthorne for at least sixteen, she told herself. Clearly, that was a long time coming.
But who had left the letter for her? Someone wanted Avery to know what had happened. Could it have been the secret-keeper's way of revealing his information without the killer finding out? Could it have been the killer, racked with guilt or wanting to play some twisted game? Could it have been someone else entirely?
Of course it had to be another game. Avery had thought—had almost hoped—that the games were over. Not that she didn't enjoy solving mysteries, but Tobias Hawthorne's game had been far more stressful than it was fun.
Avery steeled herself. A new game was upon them, whether she liked it or not, and it was her job to solve the mystery and bring Tobias Hawthorne's killer to justice—even if it tore the Hawthornes apart in the process.
The game is never over.