hello friends!

I'm sorry this chapter is a bit late I had to run it by my editor before posting :)

and sorry it's a little shorter than the last one! I'm hoping to bring down my chapter length a little bit because I don't know if most people want to read 5000 word chapters, that seems a bit long.

please guys let me know what you think! I'm so excited for this story so I'd really appreciate feedback!

peace out!

—GRAYSON—

Why did murderers always have to have such awful penmanship?

The handwriting of the letter was indescribably bad, and Grayson spent almost as much time deciphering what the letters were as solving the cipher. Surely murderers weren't all hooligans, right? Some of them had to have been taught how to write properly.

The inconsistencies in the shape of the letters made Grayson think that whoever had written this was attempting to disguise their handwriting. He wondered if, undisguised, it would have been a hand he recognized.

Grayson scrutinized the writing, analyzing the letter frequency. He hoped it was a simple substitution cipher—of course, he'd been trained for much more difficult ones, but he wanted to get this over with quickly.

yiq pkiqokp Kwvpkimhb'n tbwpk vwm hwpqmwf?

yiq pkiqokp vmiho.

ni kbfj gb Oit.

SI

m, w, p, and b all appeared often. That would point to them being some of the more common letters in the English language, letters like t, a, e, or r. Grayson pulled a piece of paper out of the study room's desk and wrote down how many times they each appeared, noting that p was the most prevalent letter.

The first and second lines both began with yiq—probably a common three-letter word. But q didn't appear very often, so the word probably wasn't the or one.

The third word was capitalized, and so was the last word of the third line. That would point to them both being names, and the apostrophe in the third word must mean it ended in an s or possibly a t—but more likely an s, since a capitalized contraction wouldn't make sense unless it was a possessive.

SI had to be initials of some kind. If they were the initials of the killer, than this game could be solved quickly, but Grayson doubted the killer would take that chance this early on. After all, the presence of other clues indicated that the killer had decided to reveal themselves the Hawthorne way—through a very complicated game that turned everyone against each other.

Grayson decided to assume that the third word was a possessive, so that would make n represent s. Looking at the word more closely, it struck him that, before the apostrophe, there were nine letters. Given the placement of the two ks and the fact that the letter was about his grandfather's murder, Grayson thought it seemed reasonable that the name was Hawthorne.

Inserting those letters in, the encrypted text now read:

yoq thoqoht Hawthorne's teath was natqraf?

yoq thoqoht wrono.

so hefj ge Oot.

SO

He smiled slightly. Now he was getting somewhere.

Thoqoht was obviously thought, and yoq was probably you, meaning q stood for u and o for g. Teath seemed very likely to be death, so t must have stood for d. The fact that y was still y, both in the cipher and in the decrypted text, probably indicated that z was still z, and it may have held true for x as well.

With those in mind, the letter read:

you thought Hawthorne's death was naturaf?

you thought wrong.

so hefj ge God.

SO

The last word of the first line clearly read natural, so Grayson swapped f out for l, which brought him almost to the end. The third line read so helj ge God, which wasn't hard to translate to so help me God.

The only thing remaining was the first of the two initials, and it was difficult because no other ss appeared in the cipher, so it could have been any of the remaining letters—b, c, f, i, j, k, q, v, x, or z.

Grayson stared at the paper for several seconds, trying to determine how best to solve it, when he realized that, with his secret, he already knew what s stood for.

He scribbled it down, and the paper on his desk read, in Grayson's neat, blocky handwriting:

YOU THOUGHT HAWTHORNE'S DEATH WAS NATURAL?

YOU THOUGHT WRONG.

SO HELP ME GOD.

CO

Almost the instant Grayson finished writing down the cipher, he heard sirens. He froze, listening to the piercing wail until it stopped and the doorbell rang.

The police were here.

Grayson tried to calm his nerves. They were only here to interview everyone and inspect the crime scene—if no one messed up, everything would be fine.

He stood up and quietly edged out into the hall, crumpling the paper with his notes on it and shoving it into his pocket. Peering over the railing, Grayson watched as Avery opened the door.

"Hello," she said. "Can I help you?"

"I'm afraid we're going to have to come in, ma'am," said a gruff female voice. "We've been issued a warrant to search the house for anything suspicious, and we'd like to speak to you."

"Of course," Avery said. "Come in."

Grayson, caught unprepared, hit the deck as the police came in, not wanting them to see him eavesdropping. His landing was a bit loud, but neither of the two officers who entered looked up.

"Please take a seat, Miss Grambs," said the female officer as Grayson inched away from the railing, hoping none of his body was still in view. The last thing he saw of the officers was both of them sitting down in chairs that faced in his direction—wonderful. Now he couldn't move, or the officers would see him and probably arrest him for overhearing their conversation.

"It has recently come to our attention," said a male voice—the other officer—"that Tobias Hawthorne did not, in fact, die of natural causes. Are you aware of this fact?"

"I am," came Avery's voice.

"What do you know about his death?" asked the female officer.

"I was not present at the time," Avery told her. "I know that he passed away in his sleep, and that he was discovered by the staff of Hawthorne House. I assure you that this is all the information I know."

She was lying, Grayson knew that. He didn't know what had been in that envelope, but he had a feeling she was holding it back.

"Did you have any knowledge of Mr. Hawthorne's intent to give you the fortune before his death?" the man inquired.

"I did not," Avery said. "I'd never even heard of the Hawthornes."

"Thank you, Ms. Grambs," said the woman, and Grayson heard the scrape of chair legs against the floor. "We'll be searching the house now. We'd like you to bring all residents and staff out to the front while we search."

"Are we being arrested?" Avery asked.

"Not necessarily. This is simply for officer safety. If we find any incriminating evidence, however, we may see fit to detain you."

"Of course," Avery replied. "Give me a few minutes to gather the others."

As her footsteps crossed the entrance hall and faded into the corridors, Grayson pulled out his phone and texted the group chat. Police are here, for those of you who didn't know. If you found anything that's obviously a clue, hide it now.

Why? came Jameson's reply.

We protect each other, Grayson typed. If the killer is one of us, do you really think we want them arrested before we know all their reasons? The police aren't going to care about the motive. This is a Hawthorne matter.

He suddenly remembered the crumpled-up paper in his pocket. The police would undoubtedly search all of them—that cipher could easily incriminate him.

Grayson inched backward on the carpet, not daring to stand up in case the officers saw him, until he was safely inside the study room. Once safe, he stood, brushed off his suit jacket, and pulled the paper out of his pocket.

Scanning the note, Grayson committed the words to memory and threw the paper into the fireplace.

The edges curled, smoked, flamed, and the decrypted cipher was gone in less than twenty seconds. Grayson wasn't sure whether to leave the room and go outside with the others or to wait until Avery came to get him, but he was saved from deciding by an incoming call.

"Hello, Avery," Grayson answered, speaking as quietly as possible. "Is there a problem?"

"I left the obelisk tip and the envelope in the car," Avery told him. "The police are going to get suspicious if they search our cars and find that. They think I'm getting you all out to the front, so I need you to go out the back, get the clues, and hide them. Climb out the window if you have to. Meet me in the library when you're done."

"Alright. I'll be fast."

"Thanks, Gray. Bye."

She hung up, and Grayson locked the door of the study room, just in case, then walked to the window and shoved it open, looking out to see if the police vehicles were in sight. They weren't, so Grayson maneuvered himself through the window and started to climb down, gripping the windowsill tightly.

He had practiced scaling up and down the walls of Hawthorne House—all four brothers had, usually in a futile attempt to escape the old man's wrath. This climb was one of the easier ones, although still difficult to accomplish if you weren't dexterous enough (in other words, Xander).

The distance between the third-story window and the second-story window was only about ten feet, so Grayson held on to the sill, lowered himself down as far as possible, and let himself drop. Upon feeling his feet hit the second-story windowsill, he slammed his palms against the bricks on either side of the windowpanes, securing his hold.

This was the most difficult part of the climb—Grayson had learned that once he hit the windowsill, he had to hold on to something or he'd fall backwards into the hedge. Which would absolutely break the fall, but he'd get quite scratched up, so Grayson usually opted to avoid that.

The hardest part was over, but the most dangerous part was soon to come. Since the hedge was right up against the House's wall, getting down required either going through the hedge—again, scratches—or jumping horizontally off the wall and landing in the grass. Jumping from fifteen or so feet up could absolutely kill Grayson if he landed badly, but sometimes, bad ideas were necessary to protect his family.

He gathered his wits and jumped, his brain racing through the mechanics of the leap. After he pushed off, Grayson brought his legs up to his chest, then extended them, keeping his knees bent, and landed on the balls of his feet. He let his right leg go limp, and it collapsed, sending him into a roll.

Grayson scrambled up, breathing out a sigh of relief. He'd practiced that jump countless times—even read about the physics of it so he could do it properly—but it still made him nervous every time he had to do it.

He checked to make sure no one was watching, then, keeping close to the wall, went around the back of the house, heading for Avery's car. He tried to stay out of the way of security cameras, but it was impossible to avoid them all.

The car was still unlocked, and the black pyramid and the envelope both sat on the front seat. Grayson picked them both up, tucking them under his suit jacket, and looked around the yard. He didn't know if the police had a warrant to search the grounds as well as the house, but outdoors seemed like a better hiding spot.

Grayson stood by the car for a few moments, trying to think of a place to hide the clues, and then the perfect spot came to him. No one—possibly not even a Hawthorne—would think to check in a dilapidated treehouse. Especially not across a disintegrating bridge. And especially not in a secret compartment on the roof.

He strode across the lawn to the treehouse and, stowing the clues in his pocket, started to climb one of the trees. Normally, Grayson wouldn't climb in his suit jacket, but he didn't want to leave it in case the police came into the yard and found it.

The stone pyramid was heavy in his pocket, and Grayson hoped it wouldn't rip through the fabric. He climbed faster, finally hoisting himself up onto a thick branch. The bridge—now little more than a decaying amalgamation of boards and ropes—stretched twenty feet from the branch to the neighboring tree. Grayson felt a twinge of apprehension about crossing it—he hadn't set foot on it for about seven years, and, well, he hadn't been a full-grown man then. What if the bridge didn't hold up? And if he fell, how would he explain any injuries to the police?

Grayson's phone buzzed in his pocket—a text from Avery had come through. What's taking so long?

Sorry, he texted back. I'm hurrying. The hiding place is a little precarious.

Well, hurry faster.

He put his phone away and took a deep breath, glancing at the bridge. Even if the boards were rotting, the ropes should still hold up. Grayson would just have to keep hold of them at all times—which he absolutely was not looking forward to. The ropes were covered in moss and dewy cobwebs, which were not things he made a habit of touching.

It was fine. Everything was fine. There was no reason to worry.

Grayson placed a hand on a rope, shuddering at the soft squish of the moss beneath his fingers. As soon as the police left, he was taking a shower.

He stepped carefully onto the first board, relieved when it didn't give way, and slowly traversed the bridge, reaching the other side without incident.

The bridge ended in a small alcove of the treehouse, one that Grayson had liked to sit and read in as a child. The wooden structure held sentimental value, but more importantly, it provided a safe place for the clues. Grayson made a mental note to suggest moving all future evidence to the treehouse.

For a moment, he entertained the thought of simply sitting in the alcove, but he pushed it away and pulled himself up onto the roof. Grasping the edge of the shingle in the center, Grayson pulled it up and deposited the stone pyramid into it.

He held the envelope for a moment longer, scanning the hastily scrawled note on the front, and wondered who would ever know if he read what was inside.

Grayson flipped up the top of the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper, written in the same infuriatingly messy hand:

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

That was too much to memorize quickly, so Grayson pulled out his phone and snapped a picture, then slid the paper back into the envelope. Placing it into the secret compartment with the black pyramid, he replaced the shingle, brushing a few dead leaves over the top for good measure.

His phone vibrated, and, checking his texts, he found one from Avery.

Grayson Davenport Hawthorne, if you don't get to the library in the next two minutes I am going to turn you in to the police myself.

Grayson hurriedly texted her back as he hastily crossed the bridge—probably a bad idea. I'm coming back. Sorry it took so long. But no one is going to find those clues now.

They'd better not, she replied. Or I will personally make sure you're the one who gets arrested.

He scrambled down the tree, a little too fast—he scraped his knuckles against the bark but ignored the sudden sting. Once down, Grayson strode briskly across the lawn, feet thudding softly against the grass, toward the back window of the library—the fastest route there.

Grayson climbed up to the window, checked inside to make sure it was indeed the library, and knocked a few times. Avery, standing inside, turned around, saw him, and came over to open the window.

"You owe me one, Gray," she said, exasperated, as he climbed through. "The police are getting suspicious."

"I owe you one?" he asked. "I just hid the clues in the most dangerous place I could think of."

"I suppose we're even, then," Avery conceded as they left the library.

They walked in silence for a few moments, and then Grayson said, "Now that I think about it, Avery, I owe you a lot."

"Oh, don't get sentimental," she retorted.

"I'm not. This is a matter of business."

"Well, I owe you a lot, too. So we're still even."

They descended the grand staircase and walked across the entrance hall, and Grayson stiffened as he saw the entire staff and residents of Hawthorne House standing outside. All of them were handcuffed except for the security guards, most of whom stood ominously around Nash, Jameson, and Xander.

Grayson and Avery stepped out onto the front steps, and the two police officers eyed them, gazes narrowed.

"I apologize for delaying your investigation," Grayson said smoothly, dipping his head to the officers. "I didn't realize you had come."

"No matter," said the female officer. "Your hands, please, both of you."

Grayson despised being restrained, but he turned around and held out his hands. The male officer clamped a pair of handcuffs around Grayson's wrists, and he winced at the chill. The other officer did the same to Avery, and both of them were escorted into the circle of security guards.

"This is stupid," Jameson complained. "And security won't answer my questions. Any idea why we're being handcuffed?"

"It's probably for officer safety," Avery told him. "If they think one of us is the killer, they're obviously going to restrain us."

"Are we gonna get interviewed?" Xander asked. "Because I'm really bad at interviewing. That's why I can't get a job."

His question was answered by the arrival of another police car, out of which stepped a woman—the chief, probably, according to the eagle insignia on her cap.

The chief walked over to the circle and announced, "Lila Winters, chief of police. I need Nash Hawthorne for questioning, please."

Nash made a movement as if to tip his hat, but he evidently remembered his hands were cuffed and instead settled for a nod. "Howdy, ma'am."

"Let's have you come over to the car."

Nash, looking terrified, followed the chief to her car and sat down on the hood. Grayson watched as the interrogation progressed—his brother became increasingly more flustered and seemed ready to burst into tears by the end. Honestly, Grayson felt rather bad for him.

Nash and Winters came back, and the policewoman jerked her chin toward Grayson. "You're next up."

Grayson gave her a nod and followed her to the car, sitting down on the hood, which was difficult with his hands cuffed. He lifted his chin and looked the chief in the eyes, silently vowing not to give anything away.

"Grayson Davenport Hawthorne," Winters said, glancing down at a clipboard and then back up at Grayson. "Is that correct?"

"Yes, it is."

"Aged twenty years, two months, and six days?"

"Correct, ma'am."

"Excellent," she said, scribbling something down on her clipboard. "Now, on to the interesting things."

Grayson arched an eyebrow. "Interesting things?"

"Where were you on the night of Tobias Hawthorne's death?" Winters asked, pinning Grayson with a dark, questioning gaze.

"I was asleep," he replied, trying to sound bored. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Perhaps because you were in the process of murdering your grandfather. Are you absolutely certain that you were asleep, Mr. Hawthorne?"

He was the picture of indifference. "Of course."

Winters arched her own eyebrow, which for some reason was rather irksome. "The security footage says otherwise."

Grayson almost passed out.

He watched as if from a distance, the blood rushing to his head, as the chief pulled out her phone and played a clip of a dark room—the hallway in his wing. On the screen, Grayson slipped out of his room, turned down the hall, and was out of sight.

"Can you explain what you were doing when you left the room?" Winters asked.

Grayson shrugged. Stay nonchalant. "I suppose I could have been using the restroom. I assure you, I do not regularly remember what I do in the night, much less in the night two years ago. I do have a history of sleepwalking—you may look into my medical records to confirm that."

That, at least, was true, though admittedly, he was grasping at straws. Grayson hadn't thought about security footage—he'd thought all the cameras had been programmed to run feeds of empty halls. Clearly, the one in his wing had been missed.

"Do you know what weapon may have been used to kill your grandfather?" the chief asked.

Grayson shook his head. "I do not."

"Do you know his cause of death?"

"I believe it has been listed as natural causes. If otherwise, then no, I do not."

Winters leaned in slightly. "Mr. Hawthorne, do you know who killed your grandfather?"

He tried to freeze his face in indifference. "No, I do not."

"If you are the perpetrator, Mr. Hawthorne, confess now, and you may face a less severe consequence. However, if you do not…"

The chief's face darkened. "Let us just say that the court will not be so lenient."

"I don't know who did this," Grayson said firmly. "But I swear on my life and on my standing as heir apparent that I am not the perpetrator. Have you considered the possibility of suicide yet?"

"We have not," Winters admitted. "Thank you for your answers, Mr. Hawthorne. You may be contacted for further questioning, depending on what we find in the House, but we are finished for now."

Grayson dipped his head. "Thank you."

The chief escorted him back to the circle of guards, then immediately pulled Jameson out for questioning. Grayson prayed silently that Jameson wouldn't say anything stupid.

Across the circle, Avery caught Grayson's eye. She didn't speak, but he could read her question in the slight tilt of her head, her barely arched eyebrow. Did you tell her anything?

He shook his head imperceptibly, a fraction of an inch to each side. No.

She gave a tiny nod. Good.

Grayson took in Avery's face—still, placid, perfectly unafraid. Her expression contrasted sharply with Xander's, which was pale and terrified. Nash didn't look much better—he was staring into space, eyes wide, completely still. When Grayson glanced at Jameson, his little brother looked defiant, strong.

He wondered what he had looked like. What had Winters thought when she'd brought him over for questioning? Did she see someone afraid of being incriminated, or someone facing her with dignity?

The chief interrogated Jameson for longer than Nash or Grayson, but Xander's questioning was over quickly. Avery went in next, and hers lasted the longest—Grayson guessed nearly half an hour, though he couldn't check his phone to see.

By the time the questioning was over and the police were out of the House, carrying plastic bags of evidence, Grayson's wrists were starting to hurt. He let out a slow breath of relief as the cuffs were released, massaging the red indents the metal had left on his skin.

"Thank you for your cooperation," Winters said, addressing them all. "You may resume normal activities. Once we have analyzed the evidence, we will contact you if anything suspicious is found."

She climbed back into her car, as did the other officers, and the police drove away, leaving the residents of Hawthorne House standing on the grass, staring after them.

"Well, that's a relief," Max said, breaking the silence. "I thought they'd never leave."

She dropped her voice as the security guards dispersed. "Who wants to see what we found in the old man's room?"