hello friends!

I hope you enjoy this chapter! it was one of my favorites to write!

thanks to the guest reviewers who left feedback on this story! I'm glad you like my writing!

reviews would make my day friends! I'd love to hear your ideas on who the murderer is :)

thanks everyone!

peace out!

—GRAYSON—

Grayson blinked furiously, trying to clear his vision. Something was pressed into the side of his head, cold and hard. The impact site throbbed, but Grayson's daze was lifting, and he could make out the shape of his attacker.

The figure was clearly female, smaller than him but quite strong. Dark, smoldering eyes bored into Grayson's, and he realized who was pinning him against the railing.

"Avery," he rasped, finding it slightly difficult to breathe with her arm pressed into his chest. "Let me—"

"Explain?" she snapped. "There's nothing to explain, Gray. I only want a confession. Say you did it, and I won't shoot you."

So the object pressing into his head was a gun. Grayson wasn't sure if Avery owned a gun, but…

"Then you stole the Winchester pistol?" he asked. "I'm impressed."

"No flattery, Gray. Just tell me that you did it."

Avery shoved the pistol harder against Grayson's skull, and he winced as she continued. "If you confess now, we can defend you in court. We can make sure you don't have a life sentence."

Her gaze burned hotter. "Why would you kill him? Your own grandfather? Was it for the inheritance? The Gray I knew would never have done that."

"Avery," Grayson said, as firmly as he could with his back pressed uncomfortably into the railing. "You're right. I would never do that for money."

"So you did do it?" Avery snapped.

Grayson's thoughts were racing, spinning in circles. On the one hand, he couldn't stand everyone being so angry at him. He hated having everyone look at him like he was worthy only of scorn, of ignorance.

But, on the other hand, he had wanted that. Grayson had needed it to happen, because no one must find out the truth. He wasn't even sure why the truth was coming out, but it was his job to make sure no one discovered it.

"Grayson."

Avery's voice was ice, and he cringed at the use of his given name. Avery never called him that.

"If you confess now," she said, "you will walk away alive. If you try to deny it, so help me, I will shoot you. I'm not afraid to do it."

She wasn't, he could see that. But he was. Grayson was very, very afraid.

He had to tell the truth…or a version of it.

The pistol's barrel jabbed into the side of his head, hard, and he gasped. "Avery, I—I didn't do it, I swear to God. I didn't kill the old man."

"What did I say about denying it?" Avery snarled, shoving him harder against the railing.

"You could have just shot me," Grayson pointed out. "Why didn't you?"

"I could do it now."

"You don't want to kill me, Avery, admit it."

Her arm pressed more forcefully into his chest. "Tell me the truth, Grayson."

"I would never lie to you about something like that," Grayson insisted, trying to stay calm. "Avery, if I were the murderer I would have told you a long time ago. I wouldn't have been able to keep that secret. I swear I would never hurt you like that."

"Explain the lantern in the garage, then."

"I used to take it out to go read in the library," Grayson told her. This, at least, was true. "Flashlights were too bright. I promise that's all I used it for."

"And the cipher?"

"What cipher?" he asked. Avery must not know that he had written it.

"We found it on the front door. It said that you were keeping a secret," she replied. "The keyword was Davenport."

"The only explanation I have for that is that someone was trying to frame me," Grayson said. Never mind that I was trying to frame myself. "Avery, please believe me. I could never do all of this to you."

"Are you at least going to help me find out who did it?" Avery asked, and she was closer than Grayson would have ever expected, given everything that had happened in the last few days—

"Of course."

"You'd better not be lying to me, Gray," Avery said. "You know I'd kill you."

"I know you could," he said softly. "But I don't think you want to."

"I'm starting to."

Grayson sighed. "Avery, I swear I'd tell you if I were guilty, if only to avoid being shot, because I'm not in the mood to die today."

"To be honest," Avery told him, her breath warm against his cheek, "I wasn't in the mood to kill you. Although you're not making it any easier."

"If I had a confession, I would give it to you," Grayson murmured. His mouth was very, very dry. "I would give you anything."

"I believe you," Avery whispered, and then she borderline slammed into Grayson, pressing her lips to his with a ferocity that stunned him, that seemed to send fire shooting through his veins—

And he was kissing her, he was kissing Avery Grambs and it didn't matter that she'd held a gun to his head or that he was still keeping a secret or that their world was crashing down around them, it only mattered that they were here, together—

Suddenly, several things happened at once.

First, Avery dropped the gun.

Second, Grayson opened his eyes—when had he closed them?—and a flash of light dazzled his senses.

Third, a figure appeared on the balcony across from the stairs, and Grayson stared directly into Jameson's eyes.

It was this last occurrence that struck Grayson the hardest. His brother's expression was filled with so many emotions that Grayson wasn't sure which to process—shock, sorrow, maybe even fear.

But, above all, there was fury—a dark, bestial kind of anger that seemed to swamp every other emotion in the vicinity, and suddenly, Grayson legitimately feared for his life.

The gun hit the marble floor below the staircase with a clatter, and a tremendous crack shattered the silence as it went off. Grayson pulled away from Avery, his hands flying to his ears in an attempt to block the sound.

"I'm sorry," he gasped, lowering his hands once the ringing had subsided. "I didn't mean—it just startled me—"

"That was my fault," Avery told him. "I dropped the pistol."

Grayson looked up at the balcony, discovering that Jameson was gone. At first, relief swept through him, but it was quickly replaced by apprehension. When provoked, Jameson could become extremely vengeful.

"We should go to bed," he murmured, his hand trailing down Avery's arm. "Oren will be here any minute to investigate that gunshot."

"Of course," Avery agreed, and she tilted her head up slightly, brushing her lips against Grayson's cheek. "I'll see you in the morning."

He stood there, frozen, watching her go. Avery ascended the staircase, then went down the hall to her wing, and Grayson squinted at her receding form until it faded.

After about a minute, he shook himself out of his daze and climbed the stairs, trying to keep a smile from his face. Grayson's skull still ached where Avery had held the gun to his head, and his back wasn't thrilled from being slammed into the railing, but those were of no consequence, because he had just kissed the woman of his dreams.

Perhaps that was a little too poetic, but it was the closest expression to describe how Grayson felt right now—like he could walk on water, on air.

He reached the top of the staircase, then turned the corner toward his room. Grayson was just about to flick off the lights—Jameson must have turned them on—when something in the middle of the hallway caught his eye.

Grayson's eyes widened, and he hurried over to the dark shape, which was slumped on the carpet, unmoving.

Jameson.

His little brother's eyes were half-closed, lashes fluttering, his chest rising and falling shallowly. Grayson's gaze slid down to Jameson's side, where blood was trickling down onto the carpet.

A lot of blood, Grayson realized. Far more than he was comfortable with.

Grayson dropped to his knees beside Jameson, and the warm wetness seeped through the fabric of his pajamas. That feeling alone was enough to make Grayson nearly vomit, but he forced the nausea down and pressed his hands over the wound, realizing what had happened.

The pistol.

When it had hit the floor, it had gone off—the bullet must have hit Jameson. Grayson didn't know how to check if it had hit any major organs—Nash had only told him to apply pressure to any wounds until he arrived to take over.

But Nash wasn't here. Grayson was going to have to go get him, and fast.

He glanced over Jameson, making sure his chest was still rising and falling, and took off toward Nash's room. The halls flashed past in a blur of moonlight and shadow as Grayson ran, his sock-clad feet slipping on the slick floors.

He reached Nash's wing and skidded to a halt in front of the bedroom door, his chest heaving. Grayson pounded his fist against the wood, yelling, "Nash! Get up! This is an emergency!"

After a minute that seemed to take eons, Nash emerged, still dressed in day clothes, and exclaimed, "Gray! What in tarnation—"

"It's Jamie," Grayson rasped, out of breath. "Gunshot wound…it was an accident…he needs help…"

"Shot? Gray, where is he?"

"On the balcony—there's a lot of blood."

Nash grabbed something—a large red case, probably a first aid kit—and instructed, "Show me where!"

Grayson led him back down the hallway to where Jameson lay on the carpet, looking even paler than when Grayson had left him. Nash sucked in a breath, kneeling beside his little brother. "That's pretty bad. Gray, can you put pressure on the wound while I get the dressin' ready?"

Grayson swallowed. "Yes, Nash."

He pressed his palms over Jameson's side, trying not to retch from the sheer amount of blood. Nash seemed to be moving as quickly as he could, but warm liquid was seeping between Grayson's fingers, soaking his hands and the cuffs of his pajamas, and he started to feel extremely lightheaded.

"Nash," Grayson said weakly, closing his eyes. "I don't think…I can't…"

His head spun, and suddenly his knees gave out, even though he was already kneeling. Nash gasped, and Grayson felt his older brother shove him against the wall and shove his head down between his knees.

"Stay calm, Gray," said Nash's voice, and Grayson heard the ripping of medical tape. "Don't pass out. I'm gonna take Jamie down to the med wing, and then I'll come back. Don't move!"

Grayson mumbled assent, and he squeezed his eyes shut, his head pounding. He was going to have an awful migraine tomorrow morning, he was sure of it.

The hall steadied as Grayson pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to ground himself. He was fine. Jameson would be fine.

He tilted his head back with a groan, resting it against the wall. It had been an incredibly long and rather painful day, and Grayson wanted nothing more than to sleep.

But no, Nash had told him to stay there and not move. As an EMT, he clearly knew what was best, so Grayson fought to stay awake, forcing his eyes to remain open.

When Nash returned, he knelt in front of Grayson, tilting his brother's chin up and inspecting his face. "Hey, Gray. How're you feelin'?"

"I'm fine," Grayson rasped, his vision beginning to clear. "Just…a little lightheaded. I'm okay."

"Let's get you cleaned up, then," Nash decided, pulling Grayson to his feet and steering him toward the bathroom at the end of the hall. "You can wash your hands, and you might wanna get that blood off your face."

Grayson glanced at his reflection in the mirror, realizing that he'd indeed smeared the red liquid over his forehead when he'd touched it. Turning the faucet on, Grayson splashed water over his face, rinsing the blood off, then washed his hands until no trace of scarlet was left. When he was finished, he felt refreshed, though still slightly dizzy.

"Gray," Nash said from behind him, putting a hand on Grayson's shoulder. "I'm sorry, I know you probably wanna go to bed, but can you tell me what happened? Cm'ere, sit down."

Grayson followed him out into the hall and sat down again, unsure if he wanted to disclose all the details.

"Avery cornered me on the stairs," Grayson explained. "She put a gun—the Winchester pistol, actually—to my head. She was going to shoot me if I didn't confess to the murder. I told her it wasn't me, and she…she dropped the pistol. It went off, and the bullet must have hit Jamie."

Nash's face seemed drained of blood. "Oh, man…I'm real sorry, Gray. That must've been terrifyin'."

"It's okay," Grayson insisted. "I'm sure Jamie will be fine."

Nash sighed heavily. "I hope so. You should get some sleep—do you need help gettin' over there? I can take you before I go back down to the med wing."

Grayson shook his head. "I'm fine, Nash. Thank you."

Nash smiled. "Okay. Night, kiddo."

"Good night, Nash."

Grayson stood, trying to avoid the blood on the floor, and stumbled back toward his wing. He still felt slightly off-balance, but he made it back to his bedroom without incident.

After changing into a different set of pajamas—ones that weren't covered in blood—Grayson pushed his armchair in front of the door, as he had been doing every night since the first sleepwalking incident. He didn't trust himself not to try and get out.

Grayson fell asleep almost immediately, a headache building in his skull as it did more often than not, and though he longed for the quiet bliss of slumber, his dreams were anything but peaceful.

—AVERY—

"What do you mean, he was shot?"

"It was when the gun went off," Nash told Avery apologetically. "He was standin' on the balcony and I guess it must've hit him."

"He's going to be okay, right?" Avery asked, staring at Jameson, who lay supine in one of the beds in the medical wing.

"Pretty sure, kid," Nash reassured her. "The bullet barely got his lung, but it's stitched up now, and it didn't hit anything else. Besides, Gray brought him to me fast, so Jamie didn't lose too much blood."

He sighed. "Poor Gray. Kid almost passed out."

"Why?" Avery asked, suddenly worried.

"Blood ain't his strong suit. Don't worry, he's fine. Just a bit shaken up."

"Not even that," said Grayson's voice, and he stepped into the medical wing, wearing a short-sleeved white dress shirt and khakis. "How's Jamie?"

"He'll pull through," Nash told his brother. "They've got him on painkillers, but he'll wake up soon. A few stitches and some rest and he'll be okay."

"That's good," Grayson breathed, sinking into a chair beside his brother's bed and staring at the ceiling. He winced and closed his eyes, putting a hand to his forehead.

"Migraine?" Nash asked sympathetically.

"Yes. I took ibuprofen, though, so it should go away soon."

"You've been gettin' a lotta those lately," Nash worried.

"They're stress-induced. Besides, I went sleepwalking again last night."

Nash's eyes widened. "Did you get out?"

Grayson shook his head, then winced again at the motion. "No. I woke up on the floor, though, which did not heighten the quality of my sleep."

"Time out." Avery held up her hands. "You sleepwalk?"

"Yes," Grayson said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "I used to do it when I was younger, but it started back up again a couple of weeks ago."

"Is that what you were doing last night?"

"No," he assured her. "I was going to get something to eat."

"Speakin' of which, you've gotta go do that," Nash said firmly. "You've hardly eaten anythin' at all since the case got opened. I'm gonna go get donuts from the pantry, okay?"

Without waiting for an answer, he breezed out of the medical wing. Avery looked over at Grayson, noting that the skin under his eyes was a faint shade of lilac. His face was drawn, his cheekbones even more prominent than usual.

"What's wrong, Gray?" she asked—softly, so as not to aggravate his headache. "You look exhausted."

"I am," he sighed. "But everything is fine."

"Look," Avery said, staring at the floor. "I'm sorry I've been so terrible to you for the past couple of weeks. I really thought it was you."

"It's understandable," Grayson replied. "I don't blame you."

He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach and closing his eyes with another sigh.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Avery asked. "You seem really run down."

"It's just a touch of nausea," Grayson assured her. "It comes with the migraine. I'm fine, I promise."

He glanced over at Jameson, and Avery saw a shadow of guilt crossing Grayson's features.

"It wasn't your fault," she said softly. "If anything, it was mine."

"That's not it," Grayson replied. "Although I can't help but think I contributed to the whole thing. Before…before the gun went off, Jamie was standing up on the balcony. He saw us, Avery, and he was furious. I don't think he's on board with this whole…us."

He sighed, and Avery wished he would stop doing that. "I just don't know if I can deal with Jamie being ready to beat me up every time I so much as look at you. And I got him seriously injured. He wouldn't be in this situation if I hadn't left my room."

Grayson drew breath for another sigh, and Avery pressed a finger to his lips. "Quit sighing, Gray. You sound like you're deflating."

"But that's how I feel," Grayson protested, gently clasping Avery's wrist and lowering it.

"Well, don't sound like it all the time!"

Nash reappeared, carrying a plate of donuts. "Breakfast is served!"

He set the plate down on an empty chair, then crammed half a chocolate donut into his mouth. Grayson took a cinnamon twist one, but all he seemed in the mood to do was nibble on it.

Avery made a mental note to get Grayson to eat later, once the effects of the migraine had dissipated. She hadn't realized he'd been going off food, although his shirt did appear to be hanging more loosely.

She, Grayson, and Nash sat next to Jameson's bed for another hour, and then the younger Hawthorne began to stir. Avery shooed the boys out of the room, whispering, "I'll talk to him," and pulled her chair over to Jameson's bedside.

"Heiress," Jameson mumbled. "Did he hurt you?"

It took Avery a moment to realize he was talking about Grayson. "No, Jamie. We were wrong. Gray isn't the murderer."

"But…are you sure?" Jameson asked, pushing himself up to sitting with a wince. "What about the cipher?"

"Someone must have framed him," Avery explained. "I'm absolutely certain it's not Gray. I was going to shoot him if he didn't confess—he would have done it if he was guilty. You should probably lay back down, Jamie—they had to stitch up your lung."

"I'm fine," he said dismissively. "If it wasn't Gray, who was it?"

"I don't know," Avery sighed. "The fact that it's—that it could be one of you is terrifying."

"It's one of us?" Jameson asked, and Avery silently cursed herself for the slip-up. "How do you know?"

She sighed again, then realized she sounded like Grayson and cut herself off in the middle of the breath. "There was an envelope in the old man's obelisk. There was a riddle inside, and it implied that one of you four is the murderer."

"But if Gray's out…" Jameson trailed off. "I can't imagine Nash or Xan killing anyone."

Neither could Avery, but that didn't exonerate them. After Grayson, Jameson seemed the most likely to kill his grandfather, but Avery had learned by now that disposition alone didn't prove someone guilty.

"You should get some rest," Avery told Jameson. "I'm going to go look over the clues."

She turned to leave, but Jameson said, "Wait, Heiress."

Avery glanced back. "Yes?"

"If Gray does anything you don't want him to do," Jameson said fiercely, "tell me and I'll kill him for you."

"He won't," Avery assured him. "But I appreciate it, Jamie."

She brushed her fingers across his shoulder. "Thank you. Sleep well."

Avery left the medical wing, pulling her phone out to text Grayson. Meet me in the tree. Ten minutes. Bring the cipher and the letter—they're on the coffee table in the drawing room.

She went outside, climbing the tree, and retrieved the clues from their hiding spot in the roof. Avery tucked the pyramid and envelope into her hoodie, carrying the chessboard more carefully through the branches toward the collections of strings.

Setting the chessboard down, Avery sat on the mossy branch, looking up at the beautiful strings. It wasn't raining today—the sky was a bright, jovial blue, and it was warm for late November.

A flash of dark blue caught her eye, and Avery looked up to see a new string, hanging from the twig next to her scarlet one.

When had Grayson made that?

She felt a twinge of guilt as she realized it must have been sometime in the past couple of weeks, when she and everyone else were ignoring him. How could Avery have hurt Grayson like that?

Standing up on the branch, Avery fingered the cobalt string, which was comprised of glass and wooden beads with a feathery navy tassel on the end. It hung so close to hers that it was almost physically painful to think about how upset Grayson must have been, how much he must have missed her.

Avery shook her head fiercely. She couldn't afford to let her feelings get in the way of solving this case.

A harsh whirring sound cut through the still air, and Avery looked over at the nook to see Grayson kneeling on the other side of the exit, wearing goggles and holding a power saw to the tree's bark. Wood chips sprayed all over him, but he didn't seem to care.

"What are you doing?" Avery yelled over the roar of the saw.

Grayson held up a finger, signaling her to wait as he dragged the saw around the circumference of the hole in the tree. When a circle of wood had fallen out, Grayson turned off the saw and pulled off his goggles.

"Sorry," he said, waving his hand in an attempt to ward off the wood dust floating through the air. "That hole was a bit tight for my liking."

He set the saw and goggles in the small wooden alcove, then crawled through the hole toward Avery. "What did you want to talk about?"

"I thought we'd look at the clues," she told him. "But first, I wanted to ask—when did you make that?"

She pointed toward the blue string, and Grayson looked down. "I…yesterday. After Jamie pulverized me with his tongue."

He smiled ruefully, and Avery was surprised that he had dared to show the emotion. "You don't have to apologize, if that's what you're planning. How's Jamie doing? He was asleep when I went to check on him."

"There's no way he fell asleep that fast," Avery replied. "He was probably faking. But he seems all right, apart from the fact that he has an IV and stitches in his lung."

Grayson picked up a stray piece of string, fidgeting with it.

"I should've done something," he murmured. "I know, it's not reasonable, but I feel like this was at least partially my fault."

Avery looked around for something to throw at him, but the only items available were the black pyramid and the chessboard, neither of which she really wanted to throw at Grayson for fear of knocking him unconscious, so she settled on berating him.

"There wasn't anything you could do, Gray," Avery insisted. "I was the one who dropped the pistol, not to mention the one who threatened you with it."

His hand went automatically to the side of his head, and Avery wondered if she'd left a bruise. "But if I hadn't left my room—"

"It wasn't your fault," Avery said firmly. "Jamie is going to be fine, Gray. Don't beat yourself up."

A gust of wind blew suddenly through the tree, and Avery gasped as the envelope with the riddle in it was propelled upwards, then sideways through the branches. The wind blew harder, and the envelope disappeared into the leaves.

"That seems like it might be important," Grayson said, and they both leaped up, Avery ducking through the hole first and bursting out of the alcove into the branches.

"If that envelope leaves the grounds, we're dead!" she called to Grayson, running along a branch and swinging to another. "Do you see it?"

"No!"

Avery vaulted over what appeared to be a zipline, suddenly catching a glimpse of white against the green. The envelope had lodged high up in one of the trees, leaves fluttering around it.

She burst through the greenery, gaze fixed on the envelope—and skidded to a halt in the middle of a massive ropes course, suspended in the trees.

Bridges spanned the gaps between trunks, and a spiderweb-like rope structure occupied a corner. Tire swings hung from high branches, swaying gently in the wind, and several ropes had been tied into loops, almost like monkey bars. Sunlight filtered between the leaves, illuminating the course.

Avery stepped forward and retrieved the envelope, shoving it into the pocket of her hoodie as she looked over the ropes course, trying to take it all in. She could almost see the boys, several years younger, playing amidst the swings and bridges.

"Impressive, isn't it?"

Avery turned to see Grayson sitting on a branch, holding onto a rope running diagonally to the tree limb. His position evoked the image of a sailor on the rigging, and Avery couldn't help but imagine Grayson with the salty wind in his hair, a spray of mist condensing on his face.

"It's amazing," she said. "Do you boys do it often?"

"We used to," Grayson replied. "It's been a while. Not because of anything, you know, upsetting—we just made stupid decisions too many times."

"Like what?" Avery asked, pulling herself up beside Grayson and leaning in conspiratorially.

"I fell off the top ropes," Grayson told her, gesturing toward them. "When I was sixteen. I sprained my back, and Nash wouldn't let me go up for months."

"How are you alive after that?" Avery said incredulously. "That's at least a fifty-foot fall!"

"There were a lot of ropes in my way," Grayson reassured her. "Xan had it worse. He tried to set a booby trap for Nash, and it went wrong. He broke his femur and three ribs."

Avery sucked in a breath. "Oh, no."

Grayson waved a hand dismissively. "He's fine now, isn't he?"

He stood up, still holding onto the rope. "Do you want to try? I can take you through if you want."

"We were supposed to look at the clues," Avery reminded him. "We never seem to get to them."

"I didn't ask what we're supposed to do," Grayson said, and Avery was surprised to see the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I asked what you wanted to do."

Avery stood up and glanced sideways at him, eyebrow raised. "I don't think it matters what I want to do, Gray. What matters is what needs to be done."

"Maybe to you," Grayson conceded. "But what you want matters more to me than anything."

"Even more than solving this case?"

"Of course."

She smirked. "Okay. Let's see how good you are."

And with that, Avery pushed him off the branch.

Grayson yelped as he fell backwards, and Avery stifled a laugh at the high-pitched sound. She watched as he crashed down into a tangle of ropes, scrambling to his knees with his cheeks flushed.

"Is that how it's going to be?" he asked. "You're on."

Avery leaped off the branch, catching a rope and swinging toward the next one. Grayson chased after her, slipping through the gaps between ropes with the agility of a panther.

She dove through a tire swing, hoping it would slow Grayson down. Sure enough, he took the long way around the tires, and by then, Avery was moving swiftly down a zipline.

Once she reached the end, she jumped onto a platform, then launched herself into the spiderweb, climbing as quickly as she could to the top. Grayson came down the zipline, and Avery looked around, trying to find an escape route, but she'd backed herself into a corner.

"Do you surrender?" Grayson asked, climbing up the spiderweb. His tone was one Avery had never heard from him before—he sounded playful.

"Never!" she replied, and she reached down and jerked one of the ropes as hard as she could.

Grayson yelped again as the rope—the one he was standing on—gave way, and he tumbled off the spiderweb, plummeting downward through the rope. Avery looked away, realizing that it might not have been the best idea to knock him off.

"You win," came Grayson's voice, and Avery looked back down to see him dangling in a tangle of ropes, disheveled and panting. "That was impressive."

Avery lowered herself down from the spiderweb, dropping through the ropes toward Grayson. He dangled from the cords, several of which had ensnared him, and Grayson's cheeks were flushed a bright pink, his hair fanning out into a golden halo.

He looked extremely cute.

She shoved the thought away, instead asking, "Do you want some help?"

"It's alright," Grayson told her. "I can—"

He pulled at one of the ropes around his waist, tugging harder when it refused to give way, then sighed. "Do you have a pocketknife?"

"Yes," Avery said, "but I don't want to cut the ropes. Let me just try and untangle you."

She reached out toward the spot where the ropes had wound around each other and started pulling at the fibers. They had wrapped tightly around Grayson's waist, which must have been quite uncomfortable, so Avery tried to work fast.

Finding the tightest rope, Avery pulled it away from Grayson's skin, her fingers brushing against the contours of his abdominal muscles. She couldn't help but be impressed by his physique, and she suddenly wanted to run her hands over every inch of him, feel the tension in his muscles…

Avery shoved that thought down too, pulling at the rope until it gave way. The other ropes untwisted, releasing Grayson. He grabbed two of the cords with a startled gasp and avoided plummeting to the ground.

"Thank you," he said, sounding slightly breathless. His cheeks were still pink from hanging upside down, and his hair hadn't fallen perfectly back into place, so it swept over Grayson's forehead in a golden wave.

He looked so pretty, so imperfect, that it was almost impossible not to kiss him.

Stop it. You're still trying to solve a murder case.

"Did you want to go look over the clues?" Grayson asked. "I didn't mean to take up so much of our time."

"You didn't," Avery told him. "But yes, let's go back and go over them. We don't seem to be able to focus on them at all."

She climbed back through the ropes course, Grayson following, until they reached the leafy cave of strings. Sunlight streamed through the leaves, illuminating the crystals and throwing soft gray spots of light onto the mossy branch.

Avery sat down, with Grayson across from her, and he carefully took the black pyramid into his hands, running his fingers over it. "Do you think this could have a secret compartment?"

"I think it's obvious that it does," Avery replied. "I'm just not sure how to open it."

Grayson lifted the pyramid to eye level. "I don't see anything out of the ordinary."

Suddenly, a low buzzing sound vibrated through the branch, and Grayson pulled his phone out of his pocket, setting the black pyramid down. "Hello, Nash."

Avery watched as Grayson listened, his jaw clenching. "Alright. We'll be there in a moment."

He slid the phone back into his pocket. "We have to get inside."

"Why?"

Grayson's face was suddenly afraid, and that scared her even more than what he said next.

"The police are coming. They know you stole the letter."