hey y'all!

sorry it's been a little bit since the last post! I had to get this critiqued but don't worry it's done now :)

and chapter six is finished and on the way! chapter seven is also almost done so I hope I'll be able to post both soon!

thanks everyone! and thank you to the guest reviewer who gave me feedback, it means a lot to me! :)

peace out!

—GRAYSON—

The bathroom light threw the shadows under Grayson's eyes into sharp relief, and he winced at the sight.

He'd been losing sleep over the case, and it was only made worse by the fact that everyone was avoiding him like he had the plague. Grayson wasn't sure why, but the reason could not be good. There was little to no chance of unexpected gifts or surprise parties.

It wasn't just sleep Grayson was losing—the scale told him he'd dropped four pounds over the last three weeks, and Grayson was less than thrilled. He'd worked for years to achieve his current physique, and though he knew that wasn't what he should be worried about, the weight loss startled him.

Grayson fastened the last few buttons on his silk pajamas and turned off the bathroom light, then climbed into bed and curled into his cocoon of fleece and polyester. He sank into sleep quickly, which he was grateful for, but Grayson's dreams were anything but peaceful.

He was holding the Winchester pistol, and his arm was wrapped around Xander's neck in a headlock, placing the barrel of the handgun to his little brother's head. Nash was standing in the shadows, sobbing, pleading with Grayson to spare Xander's life—

A lock clicked, somewhere in his subconscious.

Avery was there, and so was Jameson, staring at Grayson with empty gazes, black pools where their eyes should be. A rushing sound seemed to fill a cavernous chamber, and then Tobias Hawthorne's voice echoed through it—

Soft footsteps, padding over the carpet. Were they his?

"Finish it, Grayson!"

His hand was shaking, and he couldn't pull the trigger, but he saw Jameson raise a pistol of his own, and then Avery and Nash had them too, and Grayson pulled the gun away from Xander's head and placed it to his own temple—

A scream and a blast of light and then suddenly he was awake.

Grayson gasped in air, nearly choked on it, and all he saw was darkness and a vast expanse of marble spiraling down, down, down—

And he was falling.

He grabbed the railing, but his feet, clad in socks, slipped on something cool and flat, and Grayson slammed down onto a hard-edged surface, losing his grip on the metal and hitting his elbow on what felt like stone. A tingling sensation burst in his forearm—he'd hit his humerus—but he was no longer in danger of tumbling into the abyss.

Disoriented, Grayson blinked rapidly, chest heaving as he struggled to get his bearings. What was going on? Why was he on the grand staircase?

Then he realized that his alibi had become real—he'd been sleepwalking.

His assertion to Chief Winters that he had a history of somnambulism hadn't been a lie, but Grayson hadn't had an episode since he was fourteen. And he'd never come that close to a serious accident until now.

Grayson, shaking more than he would like to admit, pulled himself back onto the top step and sat there, still breathing hard, his vision spinning. A headache began to pulse in his temples, and Grayson pressed his fingers to his forehead, unsure if he'd hit his head or if there was a migraine coming on.

A quick inspection revealed no evidence of head trauma, so Grayson grasped the railing again and pulled himself up, swaying a little with what he assumed was exhaustion and shock.

It occurred to him how lucky he'd been—one more step and Grayson would have fallen down the staircase, possibly breaking his neck if he'd landed badly. He felt rather bruised, yes, and the fall had certainly stunned him, but he'd narrowly avoided serious injury.

Slightly off-balance, he made his way back to his room, and once there, he locked the door. Upon further thought, Grayson dragged the armchair in the corner in front of the knob—hopefully that would deter his sleeping brain.

He curled up under the covers, the pressure of the migraine slowly building, and wondered if he was going insane.

The next morning dawned wet and rainy, matching Grayson's mood, as he woke up with a splitting headache.

Upon waking, he groaned and rolled over under the covers, trying to block out the faint light that came through his window. Why must his body betray him in such ways? This was going to be one of those days where Grayson could barely function.

He re-checked his skull for signs of trauma, again finding none and deciding that the pain was indeed a migraine. Wonderful. Migraines were nothing new—he'd had them for years—but that didn't make them easier, and the stress didn't help.

Grayson lay curled under his blankets for several hours, thinking vaguely of taking Advil but finding the prospect of getting out of bed too daunting. He'd probably just have to wait this one out.

As he shifted under the covers, Grayson's sleeve rode up, exposing a contusion of considerable size on his elbow. He sighed, fingering the tender area before pulling his sleeve back up—that had bruised more than he'd thought it would. Grayson resolved to take more action to prevent himself from leaving the room at night.

A chill ran up his spine as he wondered how long he'd been sleepwalking. Had last night been the first time, or had Grayson been on multiple nighttime wanderings and simply not woken up?

It was a terrifying thought, that his body might do things his brain didn't even register. It was almost as though the two had become separate entities.

Grayson had just pulled the blankets up higher, trying to minimize the amount of light in the room, when a knock came on the door.

He winced as the harsh sound exacerbated the throb in his skull. "Go away."

"You okay, Gray?" came Nash's voice. "It's almost two p.m."

"I'm indisposed, Nash, leave me alone."

"Please, Gray? I don't want you to be all by yourself."

Grayson heard a rattle, then a click, and then the door hit the armchair he'd dragged in front of it.

"Why's this here?" Nash asked, throwing his weight against the door and shoving until he was able to squeeze through.

Grayson sighed, tearing a hand through his hair—he had to stop doing that. "I was sleepwalking last night, Nash."

"What in tarnation, Gray?" Nash sighed, sinking down in the chair. "You ain't sleepwalked in years. Did…did anythin' happen? You didn't hurt yourself, right?"

"No, Nash, I'm fine."

Nash raised an eyebrow, and Grayson sighed again. "Really. Everything's fine. You know I always got migraines after sleepwalking."

"Oh, that's what's goin' on," Nash realized. "Sorry, Gray. Anythin' I can do?"

"You can go away," Grayson told him, but his heart wasn't in the dismissal.

"I'll get you some Advil," Nash decided. "You want me to close the curtains? It's s'posed to be dark if you've got a migraine."

Grayson relented. "Fine. I mean—yes, that would be appreciated."

He paused, then added reluctantly, "Thank you."

Nash beamed. "Anythin' for my little brother."

He grabbed the cup on the nightstand, then took it into the bathroom and filled it with water. Retrieving two capsules of ibuprofen, Nash carried them and the cup over to Grayson, who sat up, took the medicine, and tried not to sink back down into the fetal position.

"You know," Nash said, drawing the curtains before sitting back down in the armchair, "when you used to sleepwalk, the doctor told me it was 'cause you were stressed. And there's a lotta stress right now, so I get it."

His expression changed from laid-back to worried. "You've been spendin' a lotta time in your room, Gray. Everythin' okay? Obviously, I know this whole situation isn't really okay, but it seems like there's somethin' else botherin' you."

Grayson sighed, leaning back against the headboard. "It's just…everyone's been avoiding me, Nash. I don't know why. It's like they're all terrified of me."

Nash looked at him apologetically. "That's the thing, Gray. I think they are. They think you killed the old man."

Grayson had suspected it, but it hurt more than he'd thought it would to hear it confirmed.

"I guess I don't blame them," he said. "Obviously I'm the one who stood to gain the most if he died. There's nothing ruling me out."

"For what it's worth," Nash said, "I don't think it was you. Don't let 'em get to you, Gray—soon this'll all be over."

He stood up. "I'll let you get some sleep. Lemme know when you're feelin' better, okay?"

Grayson nodded. "Thank you."

"'Course. Love ya, kiddo!"

He looked expectantly at Grayson, who crossed his arms and shook his head.

Nash gave him puppy dog eyes, and Grayson relented. "Love you too, Nash."

The door closed, and Grayson slid down the headboard, resting his throbbing skull on the pillows. Closing his eyes, he managed to fall asleep in about twenty minutes, which wasn't bad for a midday nap.

When he blinked awake two hours later—quite reluctantly, one might add—the migraine had abated considerably. Grayson sat up, stretching, and decided to get dressed—it wasn't very dignified to lay in bed all day. Besides, he needed a shower.

He slid out of bed, wincing at the residual ache. Retrieving a sweater and jeans—casual, yes, but today was basically a sick day—from the dresser, Grayson went into the bathroom and turned the shower on, spinning the dial to scalding. He then decided against this, turning it down just a little. He was in the mood for a very, very long shower.

Grayson stayed in there for at least forty-five minutes, pondering the situation—and there was much to ponder. He seemed a slip-up away from being named as the murderer, at least in Hawthorne House. Grayson wasn't sure about the police, but he didn't think they were very close, as they were still investigating Constance Oren to no avail.

It was time to mix things up, he decided. So what if everyone thought he was the murderer? That was what he had wanted from the beginning.

Grayson turned the shower off, stepped out, got dressed. He went to his dresser and pulled a pair of white silk gloves from the top drawer, putting them on and then walking to his desk.

He sat down, pulling a nondescript, yellow sticky note from the pad on his desk. Sticking it to the wood in front of him, Grayson retrieved his silver fountain pen from its holder and set it down next to the sticky note.

Pulling out his phone, Grayson scrolled through the Houston Chronicle's website until he found the first update on the case, the one that contained the picture of the letter. He set the phone above the sticky note, picked up the pen, and began to write in the murderer's haphazard, reckless scrawl.

He switched letters, making the note as cryptic as possible, until the encrypted text sat in front of him:

oldymih rdwqrilhn tm cnnjtho d mnvlnq

Keyword: Davenport.

—AVERY—

"This is epic!" Xander exclaimed, veritably bouncing on the floor of the treehouse. "I can't believe we're actually gonna rob the police!"

Max shushed him. "I know there aren't any security cameras around, Xan, but you probably don't want to go yelling about our heist to anyone listening."

Avery was having second thoughts about who she'd chosen to carry out the heist. She'd planned on using Max as a distraction while she went in to steal the letter, but Max had insisted on bringing Xander, since he was incredibly skilled at picking locks and hacking. Xander had told Jameson, who was going as the distraction, while Max would serve as lookout, and Xander as the means of breaking in.

Avery's job was mostly making sure that no one did anything stupid. It would probably be futile, as heists in general were stupid ideas, but she was in charge of making sure the heist didn't go horribly wrong and figuring out an escape plan if it did. The latter was much more likely.

"You all have to promise," she said firmly, "not to say anything to Gray, Nash, or Libby. They'd never let us go. We're going on Saturday, nine p.m., so there's less traffic. Max and I will wear all black, so it'll be harder to see us in the dark, but you boys have to wear normal clothes."

Jameson tilted his head. "Why?"

"Because of your being the distraction," Avery told him. "And Xan is going to help you, but only at the end."

"I'm confused," Xander said cheerfully, then leaned forward. "Let's hear the plan!"

"It's going to be dangerous," Avery cautioned. "And, if at any point, you feel like it's too much, then too bad for you. This is the plan, and it's not going to change unless something goes seriously wrong."

She pulled up the notes on her phone and began reading them aloud.

"At nine, Jameson will drive in front of the police station. But this isn't going to be normal driving—you will, to anyone who doesn't know the plan, appear to be drunk."

Jameson rubbed his hands together. "I could actually get drunk, you know."

"You can't," Avery insisted. "In fact, you'll have to hold off alcohol for at least two days before the heist—we can't take the risk of it showing up on a breathalyzer test or they'll never let you go."

"Okay," Jameson said slowly. "So the point is for them to try and arrest me for drunk driving, but I won't actually be drunk. What am I supposed to do if they question me?"

Avery shrugged. "Act drunk. Try to postpone the breathalyzer test for as long as you can. You can even fight a little if you think you need to—they won't arrest you. I've made sure of that."

"How—"

"Just wait for the end, okay?"

Jameson cracked a smile. "Sure, Heiress."

Avery glanced back down at her phone and continued. "Max—you, Xander, and I will drive in a separate car. We'll park in the mall parking lot behind the station, and as soon as the officers go to investigate Jameson, Xan will hack the lock on the back door—or pick it, I don't know which it is."

"Wait, I have a question," Xander said, raising his hand as if in class. "How're we gonna know when the officers catch Jamie if we're in the back?"

"The second the police come out to stop him, he's going to call me," Avery informed him. "I won't answer, but my phone will vibrate. Once we're inside, we have to search the evidence room for the letter. Xan, you're going to need to open anything we come across, so bring all your tools."

Xander gave her a thumbs-up, beaming. "I feel like a spy!"

Personally, Avery thought he would make a horrible spy, but she kept that thought to herself. "Once we have the letter and we're all out, I'll call Jameson, but he isn't going to answer—got that?"

Jameson nodded. "Got it."

"I'll drive us all around to the front of the station, where everyone can see us, and Xan, you're going to go inside. You'll tell the police that we've been looking everywhere for Jameson, since he has a concussion."

"But he doesn't have a concussion." Xander sounded confused.

"No, but that's what you're going to tell them. It's a passable alternative to being drunk. You'll say that you can drive him back to Hawthorne House for treatment, apologize to the police, and then get in Jameson's car and drive home. Max and I will follow you. If they say Jamie needs to go to the hospital, tell them you'll drive him there. And if they tell you he has to take an ambulance, let them take him, because it actually won't matter if the doctors run a concussion test on him. They won't find anything, and that knowledge will never get back to the police."

She turned to Jameson. "The police shouldn't arrest you if they think you have head trauma. Just act really out of it, and they'll believe you."

"What am I supposed to do?" Max asked.

"You're the lookout," Avery told her. "You'll use your phone camera to see into the hallway while Xan and I go through the evidence. If you see anyone coming, we'll have to hide or climb out a window."

Jameson glanced at Avery questioningly. "What are you going to do, Heiress?"

"I'm mostly there to make sure nothing goes wrong," she replied. "And to rewrite the plan if something does."

"We can totally pull this off," Xander said, bouncing again. "Who's ready to heist a letter?"

"No one," Avery told him. "But it doesn't matter if we're ready or not. This could be our only chance to solve the case."

She stood up, stowing her phone in her pocket. "Thanks, guys. I promise this will work."

But as they left the treehouse, Avery wondered whether she really meant that promise.

It was Saturday, the night of the heist, and Avery wasn't at all ready.

Yes, they had prepared for everything as well as they could, but there was a certain degree of perfection in a crime that Avery wasn't sure they had achieved. But the night had arrived, and there was no pushing it back.

Avery was dressed in black leggings—easier to run in than jeans—a long-sleeved black sweater, and a beanie of the same color. Max had similar clothes on, while Jameson and Xander wore normal street clothes. Gloves completed all of their ensembles, except for Jameson's, as gloves would rouse suspicion.

"Are you ready?" Avery asked, her breath rising in a pale cloud toward the night sky.

"As we'll ever be," Max told her. "Which probably isn't very much."

"Let's do this!" Xander cheered, beaming far too exuberantly for the circumstances.

Avery tried to keep her hands from shaking. "Everyone remembers what they're supposed to do, right?"

"Jamie's gonna wait 'til we get there," Xander replied, talking fast. "Then he's gonna drive all skiwompus and we'll sneak in and Max gets to be the lookout and you'll make sure we don't do anything stupid!"

"Do you remember what you're supposed to do, Xan?" Jameson sighed.

A look of deep thought came over Xander's face, and then he brightened. "Oh, yeah! I get to pick a bunch of locks! Also insinuate that Jamie has a concussion!"

Avery sighed and pulled open the door of her car, climbing into the driver's seat. "Please, guys, try to remember the plan. Don't mess up."

"Easier said than done, Heiress," Jameson told her as he walked to his own car. "But we'll try."

Avery shut the door, turning the keys in the ignition as Max sat down in the front seat and Xander climbed into the back. After making sure that there was no one watching them leave, Avery backed out of the driveway, then turned onto the private road.

"We should play some spy music," Max suggested, pulling out her phone, and Avery heard a small ding as Max's Bluetooth connected. Immediately afterward, the theme from Mission: Impossible began to play.

"That's not helping my nerves," Avery told her best friend.

"It's just to get us hyped up," Max explained. "It'll help, I promise."

It did. It absolutely did. By the time they reached the mall behind the station, Avery felt ready for anything, which probably wasn't a spectacular feeling right before a heist—anything could go wrong, and if it did, she might get overconfident and deal with it badly.

Stay vigilant. You're the brains here.

She called Jameson after parking the car. "We're at the mall—you can leave now. We'll be behind the station when you get here."

"Copy that, Heiress."

Avery hung up and took a deep breath. "Okay, Xan, can you see if you can knock out the Wi-Fi at the station? It'll disable the security cameras."

"I've never turned it off like that before," Xander said nervously, "but I'll try. What if it doesn't work? Are we just gonna destroy the cameras?"

"It has to work," Avery said firmly. "You'll figure it out, Xan. I know you will."

Xander mustered a nervous smile, which worried Avery. The young man was usually so happy and confident—it seemed like a dark omen that he was nervous.

She got out of the car, shutting the door quietly behind her. It was probably a bad idea, but Avery left it unlocked. She wanted their escape to be as fast as possible.

They approached the station, footsteps soft against the asphalt, and crouched down behind the bushes encircling the building. Xander pulled out his phone, probably looking at the network.

"I'll have to take out the antennas," he whispered. "But there's cameras on the outside, too."

Avery studied the building, spotting the antennas, as well as a satellite dish, mounted a few feet from the top of the wall. Tall, lush juniper bushes lined the walls of the station, and Avery wondered if they might shield Xander from the cameras.

"Xan," she said. "I need you to try and climb up to the antennas. The bushes should keep you out of sight, but you're going to have to be careful on the way over. Just remember—if you can't see the cameras, they can't see you. Well, for the most part—just don't go crazy, okay?"

"That's not a good order to give him," Max pointed out. "But I'm sure he'll try his best."

Xander nodded emphatically. "I'll be okay, guys. Don't worry about it."

Avery and Max watched as he tiptoed over to the wall, thankfully making it to between the juniper bushes without incident. Xander looked up at the antennas, at least nine or ten feet above his head, and then promptly started climbing a juniper bush.

It was evidently a terrible idea—Xander had to go all the way into the bush to grab onto anything that would support his weight, and Avery wondered if she should have brought someone lighter for this part. No offense to Xander, of course, but a hundred and ninety pounds on the branches of a bush didn't seem likely to work.

Avery bit her lip as Xander leaned out of the bush with a pair of wire cutters, clipping something she couldn't see. He managed to get in three snips before there was a soft crack, and Max clapped her hands over her mouth as Xander fell out of the bush, ten feet up.

The thud as he hit the ground was sickening, and Avery clenched her jaw, praying that Xander was okay. They couldn't afford to have something compromising happen this early in the mission.

Max opened her mouth to yell to her boyfriend, but Xander put a finger to his lips, then gave them a thumbs-up and a strained smile. Avery watched as he pulled out his phone and typed in the password one-handed, then scanned the screen. Only then did Xander beckon them over.

"The cameras are down," he said, his voice weak. "C'mon, let's go."

"You hurt yourself, didn't you?" Max asked, her tone halfway between scolding and worry. "Let me see."

Xander, cradling his wrist in his hand, lifted it slightly. "I think it might be broken."

At Avery's blazing glare, he swiftly added, "That doesn't mean I can't hack, though. I'll be fine, Avery, really. Let's get in there."

"Wait," Max said. "We have to wait for Jamie to call, right?"

"Yes," Avery replied, incredibly grateful that Max had remembered, as she wouldn't have. "It should be soon."

Three minutes later, Avery's phone started to vibrate, and she heard a car speed down the road.

"That's our cue," she said. "Come on."

They crept around to the door, the lock on which Xander made quick work of, even with limited use of his left hand. Max pulled the door open, and they stepped inside the dimly lit building.

"Which way to the evidence room?" Xander breathed.

"I don't know," Avery whispered. "We'll have to look for it. Stay together and don't let anyone see you."

Miraculously, the third door they checked was labeled Evidence Storage Facility. Xander pulled a tiny screwdriver from his pocket and started to pick the lock—thankfully an old-fashioned tumbler, rather than a technological security measure. After about a minute—Avery suspected it would have taken less time if not for Xander's injury—the lock clicked open, and they edged into the evidence room.

Xander locked the door again, and Avery took note of the window in the room. They could escape through it if the door were compromised.

"Which filing cabinet do you think it's in?" Max asked quietly.

"They're alphabetical," Avery pointed out. "We should check under H, for Hawthorne."

"Seriously hoping it's in this one," Xander mumbled, wincing as he inserted the screwdriver into the lock on the H cabinet. "I don't wanna have to open a crap ton of locks."

Max stood by the door, listening for footsteps as Xander struggled with the lock. Avery browsed the cabinets, just in case the letter wasn't in the H one.

"Got it," Xander panted as a soft click reached Avery's ears. "Do you think you could check for it, Avery?"

"Of course."

She rifled through the papers in the drawer, feeling inexplicably guilty for poking around in other people's evidence. There were several legal documents in the drawer, as well as a few Ziploc bags with hair or nail clippings inside.

But no letter.

Avery ran through all the papers a second time, making certain, and whispered, "Xan, we have to try another cabinet. I'm sorry, but it's not in here."

"It's okay," Xander said stoically. "What should I try next?"

"M for murder," Max suggested. "Hurry, though, I can hear footsteps. Not coming this way," she added hastily, "but there's people moving around."

Xander opened the M cabinet, but the letter wasn't inside. Next up was the bottom drawer of the H cabinet, for homicide, and then C, for ciphers. The letter was nowhere to be found.

"It has to be here somewhere," Avery said, scanning the room. "Where else would it be?"

"They could have sent it somewhere else for investigation," Xander speculated. "Maybe they gave it to the FBI to crack."

"We can't break into the FBI headquarters!" Avery hissed. "If they sent the letter there—"

"Guys," Max said suddenly. "Try O. For Oren."

Avery knew, somehow, that that was it, even before Xander picked the lock.

And as she pulled the envelope from the drawer, she heard footsteps.

"Out the window!" Max whisper-shouted, and Avery wasted no time in climbing on top of the filing cabinets below the window. Max followed her, and they both helped pull Xander up.

Avery turned the window's lock and pushed it open, turning around to drop backwards out of it. She inched over the sill, the night air cool against her skin as she lowered herself down and let go.

It was still a fairly large drop, so Avery's ankles twinged when she hit the ground, but the landing was less painful than she would have expected. Max followed her out, and then they helped Xander down, who shoved the window shut as he dropped.

"Back in the car," Avery whispered, and they sprinted to it. Avery turned the key in the ignition, then drove as nonchalantly as possible around to the front of the station, where Jameson's car was parked.

"Do you remember what you're going to say?" Avery asked Xander.

"Jamie has a concussion, we've been looking all over for him, saw his car parked here, and I'll take him back home for treatment," Xander rattled off. "Don't worry. I'm pretty sure I'll remember."

"I'm going to call you," Max told her boyfriend, pulling out her phone. "But I'll mute myself. That way we can hear what's going on with you and come in if something goes wrong—"

"And they won't be able to hear us," Avery finished. "Okay, Xan, are you ready?"

"I was born ready!" Xander said triumphantly, then reconsidered. "Actually, I think I was born in a hospital, but—you know! Yes, I'm ready!"

He answered Max's call, stowing his phone in his pocket, and went inside. Max placed her phone on the center console, and she and Avery huddled around it, listening to Xander's muffled conversation with the police.

"Evening, good sirs!" he said cheerfully. "I couldn't help but notice my dear brother's car parked outside. I wonder if he might be somewhere nearby? We've been looking all over for him."

"In the back room," said a muffled voice. "Doesn't seem right in the head. Any idea what happened, kid?"

"Alas." Xander's voice was a bit overly dramatic. "An accident involving a ladder. I'm afraid he has a concussion."

"Concussion, huh?" the officer asked skeptically. "We thought he was drunk."

"Drunk?" Xander gasped, and Avery pictured his look of feigned shock. "Never! Have you performed a test to make certain?"

"They're just finishing up with it now," said the officer.

"If it comes back negative, would you allow me to escort Jameson home?" Xander asked. "He's not in his right mind, and I'd like to take him home for treatment. I'm truly sorry for all the trouble he's caused you."

"We'll see, kid. You over eighteen?"

"Of course. Here's my ID."

A soft sliding sound, and Avery guessed that Xander had slid his driver's license across a counter or table of some sort. The faint sound of a door creaking open came from the phone, and Jameson's slightly slurred voice followed it.

"Hey, Xan…apparently I'm not drunk."

Xander's sigh may have been slightly exaggerated. "Of course not, Jamie, you bonehead. C'mon, we're going home."

"The breathalyzer test came back negative," said a female voice, probably another officer. "I'm not sure what's wrong with him."

"Kid's brother says he's got a concussion," the first officer told her. "That'd explain it."

"Can take my brother home?" Xander asked. "He's had a long day."

The first officer heaved a sigh. "Fine, kid. Try to make sure not to get into any more trouble, okay?"

"Of course, sir. I apologize for all the trouble we've caused you tonight."

Xander and Jameson exited the police station, with Jameson slightly off-balance. Xander guided Jameson into the passenger seat of the car, then sat down in the driver's seat.

His voice came through on the phone a moment later. "I don't know if this throws a wrench in our plans, but, um…I don't think I can drive. You know. Broken wrist and such."

Max unmuted herself.

"You're gonna have to switch with Jamie," she told Xander as Jameson said, "You broke your wrist?"

"Yeah," Xander told his brother. "I fell out of a bush. Long story. Can you try and climb over me, Jamie?"

Jameson sighed exasperatedly, but he did so as discreetly as possible, maneuvering himself into the driver's seat as Xander slid into the passenger's.

"Are we good to go?" Avery asked, fingering the letter, which still lay on her lap.

"Ready when you are, Heiress," Jameson replied over the phone, and Avery pulled out of the parking lot, turning onto the main road as her heart thudded in her chest.

They'd actually done it. They had successfully retrieved the letter, and once they decoded the clues it held, Avery could expose Grayson and put this all behind her.

A twinge of guilt woke in her, pitying that secretly kind boy, but she pushed it away. This was the right thing to do.

And yet she had never been more uncertain.