hello friends!

sorry it's been a while! I hope you like this chapter!

I would really appreciate reviews! They would make my day!

thank you so much you guys are so patient XD

peace out!

—GRAYSON—

Today, the odds were not in Grayson's favor.

It's your own fault, he reminded himself as he knotted his tie, straightening the black silk. You brought this upon yourself. This is what you wanted.

He walked slowly, deliberately, down the grand staircase, wondering if anyone had found the sticky note yet. Grayson had placed it on the front doors, and it was only a matter of time before someone discovered it.

Breakfast was being served in the dining room, and Grayson sat down in his usual spot next to Nash. He supposed said spot wasn't usual, per se, since he more often than not slept through breakfast, but it was his designated seat.

Avery was seated across from him, and she stared at Grayson with barely disguised hate. The intensity of it shocked him—did she know? Had she realized what he had done?

He'd be a fool to think she wouldn't. Avery was just as intelligent as he was, if not more, and Grayson knew it wouldn't be long before his secret was out.

Xander entered the dining room, his gaze fixed on the floor, and Grayson realized that his little brother was wearing a brace on his left wrist. He arched an eyebrow as Xander sat down, but it wasn't acknowledged.

Something was going on, Grayson realized. Something bigger than the sticky note he'd written.

Max followed Xander into the room, and Jameson arrived last. Once they were all seated, a maid brought a platter of waffles into the dining room, but Avery held up a hand and waved her away. The girl ducked her head and disappeared back into the kitchen, and Grayson felt a stab of pity for her. Avery didn't usually dismiss people like that.

"For those of you who don't know," Avery announced, her tone emotionless, "last night, Jameson, Max, Xander, and I were able to secure the letter that began this case."

She held up a square white envelope, and Grayson's heart dropped down into his stomach. If Avery had the letter, that would make things much more…challenging.

"How'd you get that?" Nash asked. "I thought the police had it."

"We took it back," Avery said shamelessly. "It wasn't hard. The point is, we have it, and once we've found the clue inside, this case will be put to rest."

"Wait," Libby said sharply. "You're telling me you stole police evidence?"

Avery pinned her with a steely gaze. "Yes."

"That was really dangerous, kid," Nash said, looking rather pale. "Is that how Xan got hurt?"

"I knocked out the Wi-Fi," Xander mumbled. "And I fell out of a bush. I'm really sorry, Nash."

"Avery," Libby said, her tone still cold. "A heist? All four of you were in serious danger. Why did you think you needed to steal the letter?"

"Logic," Avery replied. "The killer wanted it back, and they never got it, so we figured there must be a clue inside—something the police didn't find when they cracked it."

"But does that really merit risking your life and the lives of your friends?" Libby asked.

"We all chose to go," Max insisted. "It's not her fault."

"And our lives weren't in danger," Jameson added.

"You don't know that," Libby told him. "What if police had fired on you? Or Xan had broken his neck instead of his wrist? So many things could have gone wrong!"

"But they didn't," Avery hissed, and Grayson was surprised at her tone. He'd never seen the sisters fight before, and the tension in the room was mounting rapidly.

"Nothing compromising happened," Avery continued. "We all got out of there, alive and in possession of more evidence that we can use to solve this case. If the police haven't solved it by now, I don't think they ever will. It was imperative that we take the letter back."

"Avery, she's right," Grayson said quietly. "I don't think stealing it was the right thing to do this time."

"You're one to talk!" she laughed, and the sound was bitter and derisive, so unlike the laugh Grayson loved. "As if you know anything about right and wrong!"

"What are you talkin' about, kid?" Nash asked.

Avery ignored him, instead standing up and turning her blazing glare back on everyone. Her eyes were fire, but her voice was ice as she said, "Everything we've been through is about to be over, and all you care about is that it wasn't right to steal the letter. I did all of this for you, and none of you even want it. You don't care that I'm going to take away the fear you've been living through for a month."

She opened the door to the dining room and stepped outside. "I can't believe this is the kind of life you want."

The door shut, and the rest of them sat in silence, staring after Avery. Grayson looked down, tracing the spiraling filigree carved into the armrest of his chair.

Max stood up, looking downcast, and left too. Xander followed her, sniffling and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

"What happened, Jamie?" Grayson asked.

"I pretended to be drunk," Jameson said. "Drove by the police station. They brought me in and gave me a breath test while everyone else snuck in. When they were done, Xan came in and told the police I had a concussion. They let him take me home, and….yeah. Now we have the letter."

"That might've been even more dangerous than stealin' the letter, Jamie," Nash said. "What if you'd actually hit someone?"

"Avery planned it all exactly right," Jameson replied fiercely. "I trust her, Nash. I knew she'd make sure I didn't hurt anyone."

Nash sighed. "I know. She's good at plannin'. But y'all can't do any more heists, Jamie. What if someone gets hurt?"

"I don't think we were planning any more," Jameson assured Nash. "But if Avery asked, I'd do it again. I'd follow her into anything."

Grayson felt an unexpected and decidedly-inappropriate-for-the-situation twinge of jealousy in the pit of his stomach, which his heart had now vacated. He knew he should be more worried about the fact that his brothers, Avery, and Max had broken into a police station, but why must Jameson speak of Avery in that way?

"If you'll excuse me," Jameson continued, pushing his chair back and standing up, "I'm going to go help Heiress figure out the clues, because that's what she needs right now, not all of you telling her what she shouldn't do."

He left the dining room, and so only Grayson, Nash, and Libby were there to eat the long-awaited waffles.

After breakfast, Grayson went into the drawing room with Nash and Libby to check on how the others were doing with the letter.

As they passed the front door, Nash stepped toward it, and Grayson stiffened as his older brother muttered, "Hey, what's this?"

He pulled the sticky note from the wood, and Grayson watched as Nash stuttered over the encrypted letters. "I think it's written in some sort of code."

"That means someone is still leaving clues," Libby whispered. "Someone's watching."

"Did you say more clues?" came Xander's excited voice from the drawing room. "I wanna see!"

He burst out of the room and skidded in front of Nash, looking over his brother's shoulder at the sticky note. "Whoa! It's a code! That's epic!"

Xander grabbed Nash's arm and pulled him into the drawing room. "Let's go solve it!"

Libby followed them, and Grayson tentatively stepped into the room after her. He was immediately met with a scathing look from Avery, and, surprisingly, one from Jameson.

He didn't need to be told to leave.

Grayson bowed his head, turned, and trudged up the stairs to his practice room, locking the door when he arrived.

He removed his violin from its case, rubbed rosin on his bow, and began to play, a haunting, mournful melody that vibrated not only on the strings of the violin but on those of his soul.

After a few minutes, Grayson crossed to the window, the glass of which rain beat down upon, and opened it, allowing a shaft of cold air into the room. He wasn't sure why he wanted it open—the room was chilly enough already.

Then he realized he wanted someone to hear him.

Someone. Anyone. Everyone.

No one did.

After about an hour of practice, when Grayson's fingertips ached from being pressed into the strings, a harsh, insistent knock came on the door of the practice room. Grayson set down the violin and pulled the door open, ready to face whoever it was.

He was immediately grabbed by the lapels and yanked forward, then slammed against the wall in the corridor. Grayson, unable to keep back a gasp for air, found himself looking into Jameson's furious emerald gaze.

"I never thought it would be you."

Jameson's fists were still clenched against the suit jacket, pinning Grayson to the wall, as he continued. "But I can't believe I didn't see it sooner. So why'd you do it? The inheritance? The glory?"

"Jamie, listen—"

"No, Gray, you listen. You killed the old man, and you kept it secret this whole time, and you never once thought to mention that you were a murderer."

He paused, and Grayson thought he could see angry tears in Jameson's eyes. "I thought you were different, Gray! I thought you weren't like this!"

"I'm not—"

"Do you know what you did to Avery?" Jameson snapped. "You destroyed her. She thought she could trust you. But now she's scared for her life, and for all our lives, and it's because of you, and you had better stay the hell away from her, or so help me, there's going to be more than one murderer in this house!"

"Jamie," Grayson choked, his eyes burning. "Jamie, please, I'm your brother—"

"Half-brother," Jameson spat, and he shoved Grayson against the wall one more time before storming down the stairs.

Grayson stood in the hall, shaking, watching Jameson leave, and then he turned and bolted the other way.

He ran down a flight of stairs, flung open the doors to the backyard. Sprinted across the wet grass, not caring about his dress shoes, ran until he reached the base of the tree.

Grayson pulled off his suit jacket, tossing it haphazardly over a branch, and started to climb with reckless abandon. The bark was soaked and slippery beneath his fingers, and he slipped several times, streaking his white shirt with chlorophyll, but Grayson kept climbing, trying desperately to hold back tears.

This is what you wanted!

But it hurt—it hurt so much more than he'd ever thought it would.

He reached the alcove that led to his branch and climbed through the window, then squeezed through the hole in the trunk. Grayson's chest caught in the tight space for a moment, but he forced himself through, the jagged bark scraping mercilessly against his torso.

The branch was bathed in pale gray light as Grayson emerged onto it. Hands trembling, he pulled aside the curtain of moss that hid his crafting supplies and reached inside the compartment, pulling out a navy string and cobalt beads.

This string would be blue, but only because he was running out of gray.

Grayson sat on the branch, threading beads onto the string and tying a bundle of soft dark feathers to the end. His eyes were still burning, and Grayson cursed the tears he wouldn't let fall as he added a royal blue crystal to the string.

He hadn't expected everyone to react like this. He'd thought they might understand.

That had been a foolish assumption. No one just understood. They especially did not understand Grayson.

He threaded the last bead onto the string, then stood up and tied it next to Avery's. The twig dipped under the weight as Grayson hung the string, and he wondered if, one day, it would break.

The rain pattered softly on the leaves above, and Grayson entertained the idea of napping on the branch, as he'd done often in his younger years. Whenever the old man had given him a particularly harsh lecture or beating, Grayson had climbed to the branch, taken a cushion from the nook in the trunk, and tried to sleep away his hurt.

Why not do it now? It wasn't like he could go back inside—no one would want him there.

Grayson reached into the nook and pulled a small, round, dark red cushion from it. He knew it was undignified, but he lay down on the moss, resting his head on the cushion, and curled into himself, closing his eyes.

He reminded himself that sometimes pain was necessary, that it had to be suffered.

But still—

He wished someone would come and take it all away.

—AVERY—

Avery held the letter up to the light, wondering if it might help reveal some kind of invisible ink.

Nothing happened—they'd found no clues after an hour and a half of scanning the letter over and over again. Nash and Libby were trying to crack the sticky note they'd found on the door, and the rest of them had teamed up to work on the letter.

"Maybe if we heat it up again?" Xander suggested.

"You almost set it on fire, Xan," Jameson reminded him. "We can't risk burning it."

"I think we made sure there isn't any invisible ink," Max said. "But there has to be something else. Why else would the killer want it back?"

They worked in silence for another half hour, and then Nash's voice, hoarse and strained, pierced the still air. "You guys."

He held up the sticky note. "We got the cipher."

"What's it say?" Xander asked, and, wordlessly, Nash handed him the note.

Xander read it out loud, and the words seemed to freeze everyone in their tracks.

"Grayson Hawthorne is keeping a secret."

He looked up. "The keyword's Davenport."

Silence reigned for several seconds before Jameson breathed, "It was Gray?"

Avery nodded. "I knew. But this confirms it."

"Why didn't you tell us?" Libby asked.

"I wanted to make sure," Avery told her. "And…"

She sighed. "I didn't want to believe it. I thought I could trust him. He seemed so…so good. I didn't want to believe it was any of us, but…"

Especially him.

Avery had thought they might have something special, something close to love. Grayson had seemed so kind, so sensitive and thoughtful. Never would she have guessed that he would kill a man—a relative, no less—in cold blood.

Didn't he realize how many people he'd hurt?

Her eyes were starting to sting with tears, and she pushed them down, looking up at the others. "If we can find proof, we can expose him. We need evidence with Gray's fingerprints or something."

Jameson's face had darkened. "I'm gonna go kill him."

His hands, clenched into fists, were shaking, and Avery put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't hurt him, Jamie. Gray will get what he deserves later, I promise."

The stormy gaze softened a little. "Okay, Heiress. But I'm still going to talk to him."

He turned and left, and Avery sat down in an armchair in front of the fireplace. Xander mumbled something about going to get his magnifying glass and slipped out of the room, looking as though he were about to burst into tears.

Shouted words began to echo from above, and Avery winced. She didn't want the boys to fight over this.

After about a minute, the yelling stopped, and Avery heard two sets of footsteps: one slower, more deliberate, coming back down the grand staircase, and the other faster, lighter, fading away.

The first was Jameson, obviously, as he stormed back into the room and flung himself onto a couch, fuming. Avery wondered where Grayson had gone.

Xander re-entered the room, carrying a magnifying glass, and started poring over the letter. Avery stared out the window into the rain, reveling in the silence.

All was quiet for a long time, and then Xander gasped. "I've got it!"

Avery, Max, and Jameson all darted over to him, crowding around the coffee table, while Nash and Libby followed more slowly.

Xander's voice was breathless as he traced the curve of the S in the last line. "If you look in the magnifying glass, there are teeny tiny numbers written in the letters. Here, Avery, you can look first."

She took the magnifier and peered closely at the letter. Sure enough, in the S and the I in the last line were written two numbers: 12.011 in the S, and 15.999 in the I.

"I think I know what they are," said Xander, his voice low but charged with excitement. "Decrypted, those letters would be CO, right? And those numbers are the atomic weights for carbon, which is the C, and oxygen, which is the O. Together, one carbon and one oxygen make carbon monoxide."

He beamed. "And carbon monoxide's chemical formula is CO."

"Xan, you're a genius," Jameson said, clapping his little brother on the shoulder. "But why carbon monoxide?"

Xander's face fell, and now he just looked scared. "Jamie, I think…I think that's how he died."

The wheels of Avery's brain were turning rapidly. "It would have been so easy to make it look like an accident. Carbon monoxide is colorless, odorless, and tasteless—right, Xan?"

Xander nodded. "A lot of people never even know it's there."

"So Gray found something that would produce carbon monoxide and put it in the old man's room," Avery said. "What could he have used?"

"If it helps," Xander offered, "any combustion reaction can produce carbon monoxide. Gray would have needed something that runs on combustion."

"But he also needed something that he could carry into the room," Jameson added. "It'd have to be small."

"Some kind of stove or grill would work," Nash said. "Or anythin' that runs on propane, probably. Maybe our campin' stoves?"

Camping.

What was it about camping?

There had been something, something in the old man's room, that had to do with camping…

And then, suddenly, Avery remembered.

"The lantern," she gasped.

Max tilted her head. "What?"

"There was a lantern," Avery said breathlessly, her heart slamming against her ribs. "In the old man's room. It was sitting on the dresser. And it was old-fashioned—it would have run on combustion."

"The windows were all open," Libby added, comprehension dawning on her face. "So the gas could air out before anyone came to see the body."

"We have to dust for fingerprints," Avery said. "This is our proof, you guys."

"And then what?" Nash asked. "What are we gonna do if we find Gray's fingerprints?"

"Then we're going to take the evidence to the police and close this case," Avery told him.

Nash looked at her solemnly, with a touch of fear in his gaze. "And what if we don't find them?"

For that, she had no answer.

Avery spent the next several hours researching how to dust for and lift fingerprints. She took samples of all four boys' fingerprints, Grayson's from his violin in the practice room, and confronted the lantern with a bottle of baby powder and a paintbrush.

The baby powder did work. She tested it on several other objects, just to be sure, and she found fingerprints.

But the lantern had none. None at all, Grayson's or otherwise.

Avery didn't understand. How could the lantern have no fingerprints? It was one thing for Grayson to have worn gloves, but he'd had to have intentionally wiped the whole thing down. She could see him doing it, though, so perhaps it wasn't too far from the realm of possibility.

She cursed Grayson for being so methodical. He would have known to cover his tracks, would have ensured that no one would ever find out what he had done.

No matter. Avery would find some kind of proof.

She went down to the garage, wanting to test all of the camping supplies that could produce CO gas. If not the lanterns, then the portable stove could have worked.

Avery dusted baby powder over the stove, but she didn't find any of Grayson's prints. Nash's were on there, as were Xander's, and she assumed that they'd carried it on whatever camping trip they'd been on last.

The propane heater was a no, as were the grill (although that wouldn't have been feasible) and the furnace (even less feasible). Avery hated to admit it, but she was getting desperate.

She was just about to leave the garage when something caught her eye. As Avery squinted into the dim light, she realized that three other lanterns had been pushed to the back of a shelf, almost as if someone had tried to hide them.

All of them looked exactly like the one in the old man's room.

Avery strode over to them, her pulse speeding up, and dusted a lantern with the baby powder. When the fingerprints emerged, she compared them to Grayson's sample.

There was the line running through the thumbprint, the spiral in the middle, even the fadeout at the edge. They were much clearer than the prints on the stove had been, suggesting that they were more recent.

Sure enough, it was a match.

Avery's mind began to race. Why were Grayson's fingerprints on this lantern, but not the one in the room?

He'd probably made a mistake, she concluded. Grayson would have to have touched this lantern, then remembered he needed gloves and switched to the current one.

Just to be sure, Avery dusted the other lanterns. No prints.

And that was it.

She had her proof.

As Avery left the garage and ascended the stairs to her room, her heartbeat slowed, and she was filled with a cold, undeniable sense of purpose.

She opened the drawer of her nightstand, pulled out the Winchester pistol, and stepped into the now-darkened hallway.

This would end.

Tonight.

—GRAYSON—

The rain, pattering on the leaves above, woke Grayson up. For a moment, he wondered where he was, as it was much colder than his bed would have been, but then he remembered.

Grayson sat up, rubbing his cheek where it had pressed into the moss. The cushion had worked its way under his shoulder, which was now the only part of his body that wasn't slightly sore from sleeping on a branch.

The wind chimes sounded above, filling the space with their shimmering call as Grayson stood up, arching his back in a stretch. His spine cracked, and he winced at the twinge of pain.

He pulled out his phone, examining his reflection in the dark screen, and sighed, raking a hand through his hair. It was already tousled, and chlorophyll stained his cheek, forearms, and dress shirt, which Grayson concluded must have rubbed against the moss. His tie hung limp around his shoulders, and his entire body felt damp and sticky.

You're a mess, Hawthorne, he chided himself. Grandfather would never have stood for this.

Grayson decided that he was in desperate need of a shower, and so he crawled back through the reading nook, gritting his teeth as he squeezed through the exit. The bark scraped against his torso, leaving stinging trails in its wake, and Grayson made a mental note to enlarge the hole sometime. One of these days, he was going to get stuck, and that would be unspeakably awkward, to say the least.

He climbed down the tree, careful not to slip on the moss. When Grayson reached the ground, he retrieved his suit jacket, saturated with rainwater, from its makeshift hanger. He didn't dare put it on in its soaked state, so he draped it over his arm and set off through the wet grass toward the back door.

Dusk was falling, the clouds darkening, and Grayson realized that he must have slept for several hours. Had the others cracked the letter or the cipher yet?

Grayson wondered if everyone in the House was still in battle mode, ready to turn on him at the slightest movement. Jameson and Avery hadn't seemed to want him there, but he wasn't sure of the others.

He hoped no one else was on the defensive. Grayson had underestimated how much it hurt to have the people he loved actively fighting against him.

Thankfully, the back door was unlocked, and Grayson slipped inside, his shoes squishing against the marble floor of the corridor. No one came charging out to pulverize him, so he assumed he was safe for the time being.

Once locked in his room, Grayson took a long, hot shower, scrubbing the moss stains off his skin. He carefully cleaned the scrapes on his chest and upper back, although they had barely broken the skin, so there was little risk of infection.

He stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist, wiping the steam off the mirror so he could see his reflection. It looked slightly better—no green smudges on his face—but Grayson's ribs were slightly more prominent than he would have liked, and he resolved to try and remember to eat.

Perhaps he would go down to the pantry for a snack. That seemed like a good idea. And it was dark now—hopefully the others were on their way to bed.

Grayson dressed in his silk pajamas, then cautiously slipped out of his room. The hall was dark, but Grayson kept his footsteps soft against the carpet, hoping not to startle anyone.

He was descending the grand staircase, wondering if he should have brought a flashlight—or, Grayson thought dryly, a lantern—when, suddenly, something slammed painfully into the side of his head.

Stars exploded in Grayson's vision as he gasped, tiny explosions of light against the darkness of the staircase. Before they cleared, another object hit his chest, sending a twinge through his scrapes.

"Don't move," hissed a voice, "and I won't kill you."

Oh, wonderful.