hi friends! sorry it took a little to get this chapter up, had to get it beta read :)

please y'all lmk how this story is doing! I would love reviews they would make my day!

peace out!

:)

—GRAYSON—

The night of November fifteenth was overcast, with only the faintest hint of a claw-shaped moon peeking through the clouds. The cemetery was freezing, eerie, and perfectly silent, and Grayson would rather be anywhere in the world than in this grove of trees, watching his grandfather's grave.

He and Avery weren't the only ones watching, though. Soon after they'd arrived, the police had shown up, keeping watch over the grave from afar in case the killer tried to come back for the letter. One man stood behind the obelisk, hidden from view if the killer were to approach from the parking lot.

Grayson wasn't worried about the killer coming back, though. He was worried that he might get frostbite—the temperature had to be in the thirties, maybe lower, and he was only wearing a windbreaker.

"Remind me why we didn't dress warmer," Grayson mumbled, his teeth chattering as he rubbed his hands up and down his arms, trying to regain some semblance of warmth.

"It'll make it harder to run if they see us," Avery told him. "You'd rather be wearing about fifteen ski jackets and snowpants?"

"At this point, yes."

She laughed—quietly, given the circumstances, but it still filled Grayson's chest with something close to the warmth he was seeking.

"Seriously, Avery," he complained. "I'm freezing. And running around or doing jumping jacks is out of the question—the police would see me."

"I'm not going to hug you, if that's what you're thinking," Avery said dangerously, but her eyes sparkled with a faint gleam of amusement.

"Of course not," Grayson assured her, but he couldn't deny that a part of him—the blasted soft part—had entertained the thought, if only for a moment.

Grayson cupped his hands around his mouth and nose, blowing hot air into the space as he tried to warm himself. Clearly, a windbreaker had not been the best choice of outerwear for a grave stakeout.

He checked his Rolex—two o' clock in the morning, and still the killer hadn't shown. Did they know the police would be there?

He began to wonder what would happen if he fell victim to hypothermia. Was it as awful as it was made out to be? Could he possibly die from exposure if they waited too long? Would anyone miss him if he did?

Stop being morbid, Hawthorne.

Three o' clock.

Grayson's eyes were starting to close. He pinched himself, hard, on the soft skin on the inside of his thigh. The spark of pain woke him up, but only for a moment, and then the shadows threatened to take over again.

As silently as possible, Grayson opened his water bottle, splashing the icy liquid onto his cheeks. It was so cold it stung, but that helped keep his eyes open.

Four o' clock.

The darkness threatened to swallow him. Grayson was half asleep, contemplating banging his head against the tree in front of him to knock himself awake. Of course, there was a much greater chance of knocking himself out, which would only complicate things.

Grayson almost did it five seconds later, when his head drooped so suddenly that he bumped his forehead against his knee. The impact jolted him awake, and Grayson winced, gingerly massaging the sore spot.

He looked out into the darkness, watching the police standing at attention around the grave. Would they leave soon, once they decided the killer wasn't showing up?

Five o' clock.

The police began to leave, getting into their cruisers and driving away until only one officer remained. He stood silhouetted against the setting moon, tall and imposing, and Grayson hoped he would leave soon.

Dawn began to paint the sky, a faint, milky splash of white against the eastern horizon. Grayson stared at it blearily, his eyes unfocused as he struggled to stay awake.

At six o' clock, when the cemetery was bathed in the cobalt, pre-dawn haze, the officer left, climbing into his cruiser and driving away.

Grayson stood up, wincing at the ache in his legs, which were stiff from having sat down so long. Placing his hands on his sides, he stretched, bending backward until his spine cracked.

"Well, that yielded absolutely nothing," Avery sighed, standing up. "I suppose we can go home and sleep."

"Sleep sounds wonderful," Grayson murmured, rubbing his eyes.

They traipsed through the dew-soaked grass to the car, and Avery got into the driver's seat, since Grayson didn't trust himself to stay awake while operating a vehicle.

The drive to Hawthorne House passed in silence, and, after thanking Avery for the ride, Grayson dragged himself up the grand staircase to his room. Pulling on his silk pajamas, he collapsed into bed, curling into the fetal position under the covers.

As he drifted off, he wondered if he should have told Avery that he'd known the killer was never going to show up.

Was it right to keep this all secret?

All Grayson wanted to do was protect Avery, protect everyone, but what if someone ended up getting hurt? How could he live with himself?

It's fine, he reassured himself, succumbing to the bliss of sleep.

Everything is going to be…

…just…

…fine.

It was almost one in the afternoon when Grayson woke up, hair tousled and cheek red with pillow creases. He stayed under the covers for a few more minutes, eyes still closed, then rolled over, brushing his hair out of his eyes and yawning.

Grayson's phone vibrated on his nightstand, and he picked it up, finding several texts from his brothers in the Hawthorne-only group chat.

gray! Xander's text seemed to yell. are you seriously still asleep

This is pretty late, even for you, Jameson had written.

Leave him alone, y'all, said Nash's text. He can sleep if he wants.

Grayson texted back. I'm awake. Can't I sleep without you three bashing me?

I didn't bash you! Nash texted indignantly.

No, you did not. Apologies, Nash.

it's not like you need beauty sleep, Xander wrote. i bet avery agrees with me

Grayson flushed. Shut up, Xan.

No, he's right, Jameson said. You and Avery have been spending a lot of time together.

There's nothing going on between us, Grayson typed. We are partners in this investigation, nothing more. You think I have time for a love life right now?

no, Xander admitted. but i bet you could make it work

Grayson sighed, climbing out of bed and going into the bathroom. He used the facilities, then splashed cold water on his face, hoping it would help the pillow creases go away. After pulling on khakis and a sweater—it was rather chilly—Grayson brushed his teeth, then dragged a comb through his hair.

Deeming himself presentable, Grayson stepped into the hall to see Xander hurrying down it, looking worried.

"Gray!" Xander gasped. "Something happened!"

"I can see that," Grayson said dryly. "What is it?"

"You know the Winchester pistol?" Xander asked. Grayson nodded, and he continued. "It's gone! Somebody took it—I bet it was the murderer!"

"Show me," Grayson requested, and Xander grabbed his brother's hand, pulling him down the hall. "Come on!"

Xander led Grayson to the armory, throwing open the double doors and letting go of Grayson's hand. Grayson caught the doors before they slammed, quietly pushing them back into place, then followed Xander to the far wall.

It looked almost completely normal—the rows of fine rifles on their hooks on the wall, the swords in their glass cases. The only thing out of the ordinary was the small set of hooks in the center of the wall, ten feet up, completely empty.

The Winchester pistol should have been nothing special. It was, after all, a common handgun, nowhere near as impressive as the rifles that were kept in the armory. But Winchester had only made so many pistols, none of which were ever put into production. Tobias Hawthorne had owned one of the last in existence, and it had been one of the only things not included in the inheritance.

Grayson had thought he knew everything about the case, with the exception of the black pyramid and the chessboard, of course, but now there was another piece he didn't know the meaning of. Who would steal the Winchester pistol? It was valuable, yes, but by no means the most expensive thing in Hawthorne House.

No, it was more likely that someone needed a weapon. But what was its purpose? Self-defense, or the defense of others?

Or an instrument of death?

"We should check the security cameras," Grayson decided. "Xan, can you hack the feeds?"

"Yeah," Xander said cheerfully. "I love hacking things!"

"We'll need a ladder," Grayson said. "I'll get one from the supply closet. I need you to retrieve your hacking tools, and we'll meet back here in five minutes. Got it?"

Xander nodded. "Got it!"

He raced back out of the armory, and Grayson left too, walking down the corridor until he reached the supply closet. He supposed it wasn't the supply closet—there were several others in the House—but it was the closest.

Grayson opened the closet door and carefully lifted a ladder from its position on the floor, hoisting it lengthwise onto his shoulder and maneuvering it toward the door. He hoped the ladder was tall enough—otherwise, he'd have to retrieve the much larger one from the closet downstairs.

He carried the ladder down the hall, using the top of it to push open the doors to the armory. Once inside, Grayson set the ladder up, relieved to find that it reached nearly all the way up to the security camera. He grasped a rung and pulled himself up, finding the ladder slightly wobbly but more concerned with how he was going to detach the camera from the wall above the door.

A few moments later, Xander barreled into the room, tools in hand, flinging the door open with such force that both it and Xander hit the ladder. The ladder rocked, then tilted, and Grayson made a poorly executed leap off of it, hitting the carpeted floor hard as the metal structure crashed down with a thud.

"Ow!" Xander wailed from where he'd landed on his backside. His eyes sparkled with tears as he gingerly touched his forehead. "Why'd you put the ladder there, Gray?"

Grayson, winded, rolled over and sat up, his hand going to his shoulder, which he felt certain had suffered rugburn. "That's…that's where…the camera is, Xan."

His chest heaved as he struggled to regain his breath, which thankfully returned after several seconds. Relieved that it hadn't been a serious accident, Grayson stood, offering his hand to Xander, who took it and stumbled to his feet.

"Let me see your head," Grayson demanded, and Xander lowered his hand from his face, sniffling slightly as Grayson stood on his tiptoes, examining his little brother's face. A goose egg was already starting to swell on Xander's forehead, and Grayson sighed. "You have to be more careful, Xan."

"I know," Xander whimpered. "I'm really sorry, Gray. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"You didn't. Hold still for a second—I have to make sure you don't have a concussion."

After administering a short test, during which it was determined that Xander wasn't experiencing double vision or abnormal pupil dilation, Grayson concluded that a concussion was unlikely. Besides, Xander appeared back to normal by the end of the test, so it seemed safe to allow him to begin work on the camera.

"Alright," Xander said, cracking his knuckles as he climbed the now-upright ladder. "Let's get hacking!"

Grayson held the ladder steady, not trusting it to remain standing. He watched Xander gently handling the camera, trying to figure out how to access the video feed.

Suddenly, Xander sucked in a sharp breath. "Gray, somebody disabled the camera."

"Not much of a surprise," Grayson commented. "How?"

"I don't know—maybe they stabbed it? The lens is totally shattered."

"Let me see," Grayson said, climbing the other side of the ladder and struggling to remain steady on the wobbly structure. When he reached the top, he peered closely at the camera, realizing that the lens was indeed cracked. Whatever had shattered it appeared to have entered from the bottom of the camera and stabbed upward.

"The memory drive should be fine," Xander reassured Grayson. "I'll see if I can get it to cast to my phone. It looks like whoever messed the camera up only hit the lens."

After some tinkering, Xander managed to get the video footage on his phone, and he and Grayson scrolled back through the feed until they found the last time there was anything to watch—seven-fifty-two that morning. Xander turned the volume up, and both brothers listened as the door of the armory creaked open, the sound followed by soft footsteps on the carpet.

All was silent for a moment, and then there was the sound of metal on glass as something stabbed into the camera. The video flickered, and then another impact sent it into darkness.

Xander moved to turn it off, but Grayson stopped him. "We should listen."

The lock on the armory's doors clicked, and then there were more footsteps. A quiet scraping noise came next, and then the thief walked back to the door, unlocking it and shutting it with barely a sound as they left.

"How'd they get the pistol off the wall?" Xander asked, pausing the audio. "It's like ten feet up!"

"The same way they disabled the camera," Grayson realized. "There was no evidence that the thief brought a ladder—we would have heard it. And no one could have simply reached above the door or that far up the wall. I think the thief must have had some sort of extension tool—we keep several in the garage."

"We should dust for fingerprints!" Xander said excitedly. "I'll get the baby powder!"

"Hold on," Grayson interjected. "You know any one of us would have been smart enough to wear gloves, right?"

Xander sighed. "Yeah, you're right. Okay, so there's probably no fingerprints. We could try to find the pistol, then—we can use the metal detector!"

"Do you know how long that would take, Xan? There are innumerable metal objects in this house."

"We have to do something!" Xander exclaimed. "We can't just let a weapon go missing! What if the thief attacks someone? What if it's the murderer?"

"Xan," Grayson said firmly, putting a hand on his brother's shoulder. "We will find out who did this. I'm not letting any of you get hurt, I promise. We just need to think of a feasible way to find the thief. And until we find out who it is, you are going to lock your door at night and not leave your room. Do you understand?"

Xander nodded shakily. "Okay, Gray. Thanks."

They both descended the ladder, and Grayson folded it up, hoisting it back onto his shoulder. "I'm going to take this back to the supply closet. Xan, I need you to go to Oren and tell him to lock the armory until this is all resolved."

Xander gave him a thumbs-up. "Awesome!"

He dashed off down the hall, and Grayson carried the ladder back to the supply closet. As he stowed it in its normal spot, something caught his eye—a long, pole-like tool, with a metal claw on the end, cast into the corner of the closet.

Those were not normally kept in the supply closets. No, this should have been in the garage, and Grayson was willing to bet the old man's entire fortune that this was the grabber tool that had allowed the thief to steal the pistol.

He crossed to the back of the closet and picked the tool up, squeezing the end and watching as the claw opened. What had the thief held in it that could have stabbed the camera? A knife would have worked, but said knife was probably back in a block in the kitchen now. There was no tracing it, especially if the thief had worn gloves.

Grayson set the tool back down, pushing it farther into the shadows, and left the closet, deciding to go down to the pantry for lunch. He hadn't been eating enough in recent days—a side effect of the stress, he supposed. It was odd, though, since Grayson usually tended to overdo it on carbohydrates when he was anxious, then exercise obsessively to counter the effects.

Once in the pantry, Grayson initially decided on a salad—the healthier the better, after all—but then realized that he was in sore need of comfort food. After glancing around to make sure no one was in the vicinity, Grayson pulled a cinnamon twist donut from its box, placed it on a napkin, then poured himself a glass of chocolate milk and headed to his room.

He locked the door for good measure and flopped onto his bed, somehow exhausted despite having woken up only an hour ago. Cheek pressed into the blankets, Grayson stared out the window at the sunlit grounds, wondering how the world could seem so bright in such an uncertain time.

He'd thought he'd had everything under control. Now more and more clues were emerging, clues that Grayson had no idea what to do with. The pyramid, the chessboard, the pistol—he didn't understand their meaning, and that scared him, the fear of the unknown, the terrifying notion that maybe he wasn't smart enough to figure this out.

Grayson dragged a hand through his hair, stopping as his shoulder stung. He wondered why for a moment, then remembered how he'd landed when Xander had knocked him off the ladder.

Sitting up, he tugged at the collar of his sweater, pulling it off his shoulder to find a vividly red abrasion. The skin didn't seem to have been broken—there were no traces of blood—but it burned as Grayson touched it, and he winced, pulling his sweater back up.

Massaging his shoulder with one hand, Grayson lifted his donut with the other and took a bite, trying to take his mind off the situation. The cinnamon flavor burst to life on his tongue, and Grayson chewed slowly, grateful for the small token of goodness in his upside-down life.

His phone buzzed—he was beginning to grow tired of that sound—and Grayson picked it up, heart plummeting as he realized there was a new update in the case.

AT ALL COSTS: Police Follow Promising New Lead in Hawthorne Murder

After decoding the killer's cipher, the police department has decided to look into the mysterious signature at the end of the letter. They have concluded that the letters, CO, are the initials of the killer, and police chief Lila Winters believes she has found a perfect match.

Constance "Connie" Oren, 31, is the sister of John Oren, head of security at Hawthorne House. With the most plausible motives for Tobias Hawthorne's murder being inheritance-related, Chief Winters has theorized that the Orens may have been conspiring to receive John's cut from the billionaire early.

Banking records show that Constance was experiencing debt and financial instability at the time of Hawthorne's death, reinforcing Chief Winters' belief that John may have promised Constance a cut of his inheritance. The logistics of the case fit perfectly—at any point on the night of the crime, John could have allowed his sister into the House.

Why, though, would John himself not have carried out the deed? Perhaps he was too loyal to his employer, or simply too squeamish. His motive is inconsequential, though—the police are mostly concerned with Constance.

When asked to speak on the matter, John told police, "Connie would never do something like that, and even if she were to, I would never help her do it. I have been sworn to protect the Hawthornes at all costs, even from my sister. But I maintain that there was never a need to protect them from her."

John's wording, "at all costs," has only heightened suspicion. What would he do for the Hawthornes? And what might he do for his sister?

The Hawthorne case continues to reveal secrets upon secrets, but the police are confident in their ability to get to the bottom of it. And they're not giving up until Tobias Hawthorne has his justice.

Grayson sighed, subconsciously shoving another chunk of donut into his mouth. This was only the start of the collateral damage—that woman was completely innocent.

If Grayson didn't reveal his secret, how many more people were going to get hurt? He couldn't live with himself if innocents' lives were ruined because he couldn't stand to tell the world what he knew.

He had to do something.

He just wasn't sure what.

—AVERY—

Avery was, to be honest, quite terrified.

Paranoia had begun to set in after the grave stakeout, since the killer had never shown up. Avery had tried to convince herself that they must have realized the police were nearby and decided not to go back for the letter, but she couldn't help thinking that there was probably a more sinister reason.

Grayson had been the only one who knew that there would be a stakeout at all.

She hadn't told anyone else.

Meaning that Grayson was, most likely, the killer.

Of course he wouldn't have shown up to get the letter if he were on a stakeout with her. Avery hated to admit it, but Grayson seemed the most likely of the Hawthornes to kill his grandfather. After all, he'd been physically and emotionally abused by Tobias Hawthorne, and the stress of being a last-minute heir apparent couldn't have helped.

Avery was sure Grayson wasn't a psychopath or anything—he wouldn't have killed the old man just for the fun of it. If he'd done it, his motives were certainly to protect himself or his brothers, probably all of them. It could have been about the money, but Avery doubted that Grayson had done it just for the inheritance.

She was in the alcove in the treehouse, reading over the riddle. The last two lines jumped out at her:

the rider, the fighter, the player, the brains

one of the birds broke the lock on the cage

It really wasn't too hard to imagine Grayson as a bird. A small, terrified finch, perhaps, with a broken wing—that was him, the image he tried so hard to hide. Avery could picture that bird now, afraid, in pain, desperate for everything to end.

She almost felt sorry for him. Avery had seen the man behind the mask, the kind, sensitive boy under the façade of marble formality. She knew who Grayson really was.

But she couldn't trust him.

She couldn't trust anyone at this point.

And everyone was beginning to feel that way, Avery knew that. Jameson and Nash both seemed incredibly jumpy, with the latter also becoming clingy and refusing to leave Libby's side. Grayson kept withdrawing from everyone, spending long periods of time in his room, and Max had told Avery she couldn't sleep—she could only lay awake in the dark, afraid the murderer would come after her next. To top it all off, Xander seemed on the verge of tears every time Avery saw him, which was so unlike the youngest Hawthorne that it struck fear into her heart.

She had to figure this out. Avery didn't want anyone she cared about to be afraid—she may not have been a true Hawthorne, but she was as good as, and Hawthornes protected their own.

All she had to do was get Grayson to confess, and everything would be okay.

Of course, she'd need more evidence. Avery couldn't just condemn him on the grounds that he'd been the only one who knew about the stakeout—she needed cold, hard, solid proof. Fingerprints, DNA evidence, security footage, things like that. If she could get those things, she could force a confession out of Grayson, and this would all be over.

Avery's heart—the heart she tried never to let take over—seemed to have a crack down its surface, dividing it into two parts. The larger part wanted to catch Grayson in his lie, make him face justice for what he'd done—because murder, under any conditions, was wrong, and Grayson should have known that.

But the smaller part, the deeper-buried one, wanted to say nothing, to return to that moment in the tree with Grayson, where all that existed was rain and fire and gray and neither of them were afraid.

Of course, she let the bigger part win.

A week passed without any movement in the case, on the Hawthornes' part or the police's.

It was not a good week. Everyone was on edge, withdrawing into rooms or going on drives with no purpose. Avery spent most of her time in the treehouse, poring over the clues. The few times she came down and passed Grayson in the hall, Avery felt a pang of guilt—he looked exhausted and downcast, and she couldn't help but think that it was because she was ignoring him.

Lately, Avery had even been sleeping in the treehouse, because on Sunday night, she'd heard footsteps outside her room. Someone had attempted to open the door, which Avery had miraculously had the foresight to lock, and then left. She hadn't been able to sleep for the rest of that night, and so she took a sleeping bag and pillow up to the alcove where the clues were—she hadn't slept in her bed since.

If things weren't bad enough already, gloves kept disappearing from Nash's box. Nash, terrified, had asked Max to hide the box somewhere no one would find it, since she was one of the least likely to be implicated in the case. Max had done so, insisting that it would be impossible to find the gloves. Avery hoped she was right.

This case was not fair to anyone, and Avery was tired of it. She had to think of some way to prove that Grayson was guilty, or this would never end.

Well, it would probably end eventually, but who knew what would happen if the police discovered the killer's identity before the Hawthornes did? There would be no way to protect Grayson, no opportunity to lessen the sentence. He could be executed if Avery didn't solve this case.

There had to be something. There must be some kind of proof.

Avery's phone buzzed against the wooden floor of the treehouse, but she ignored it. It was probably another case update, and she didn't want to see any more of those.

After several minutes, she gave in and looked at the phone. It was an article about the lack of progress in the case, detailing the failure of the police department to catch the killer on the fifteenth.

Avery put the phone back down and returned to studying the riddle, wondering for the hundredth time if there was some sort of code hidden in it. So far, though, the riddle didn't seem to be anything but an attempt to inform her of what had happened.

If only she had more clues. None of the current three made any sense.

And then, suddenly, an answer came to her in a blaze of inspiration.

The letter.

The killer—Grayson, Avery told herself—had wanted it back. There would have been no need for that if the letter wasn't a clue. Why else would he have asked for the newspaper to return it? Obviously, the letter was intended to begin the game, but the only reason Grayson would have needed it after that was if it held some other clue, something he didn't want the police to find.

Avery picked up her phone and texted Max, her fingers flying across the screen.

Hey.

This is going to sound insane, but I just realized something. Something that could solve this case.

We need the letter that was sent to the newspaper, and once we have it, I think this will all be over.

The only drawback is that we're going to have to rob the police.