gaul you guys I'm so sorry!
here is the next chapter! I hope you enjoy! I just read Games Untold in one sitting last night so this is the result :)
please rxr!
thanks!
peace out!
—GRAYSON—
Grayson had forced himself to put on clothes that were not pajamas, although he had not gone so far as a suit. He was afraid that his incessant coughing might split a seam.
He lay on his bed in a shaft of cloudy light, researching the tendencies of cardinals. They were intelligent birds, it appeared, capable of recognizing patterns and singing a vast repertoire of songs. Cardinals mated for life, and their clutch size was three to five eggs. The eggs' incubation period was twelve days, and the birds lived in Texas year-round.
None of that was very helpful at all.
Grayson scowled at the phone, knowing he was being irrationally annoyed. His mood was probably due to the excess of phlegm in his lungs and the dull headache that pounded behind his eyes. He could not concentrate under such conditions.
He despised being sick. The fever and the fluid-filled lungs were one thing—they were minor physical irritations; those he could deal with. No, what Grayson hated was the feeling of weakness and the pitying glances that illness brought. It was why he had sequestered himself in his room, poring over the clues to his own detriment.
Cardinals did not migrate much. The females and males each had specific mating calls. They could be leucistic or albino, resulting in mostly- or all-white specimens. Only leucism resulted in the kind of bird with red patches, though. It looked as though God had painted the birds with blood.
Had one of Grayson's brothers' broken wings been dipped in blood? Did he know everything he thought he did, or had it been a product of his imagination, an overthought phantom, just like his high-strung mind always created?
No. He knew what he'd seen that night.
No one else did, though, and Grayson was going to keep it that way.
A knock came on his door. Grayson nearly fell off the bed; his lungs still exploded into a coughing fit, but he staggered to the door and pulled it open, desperately trying to reassemble his composure before his visitor could comment on his appearance.
"Avery," he choked out, gripping the doorknob tightly. "Do—would you like to come in?"
"You sound horrible," she said flatly. "You look horrible, too; of course I'm coming in."
"I'm alright," Grayson said, trying and failing to convince her. "Really, I'm—it's nothing more than a cough, Ave, I swear I'm alright."
She arched an eyebrow at him. "You're death-pale, Gray, and you can't even stand up without falling over. Sit down."
Grayson arched an eyebrow back, slightly miffed that Avery was using his trademarked facial expressions to disarm him. Even so, he let go of the doorknob, his icy fingers slipping against the sweat-slicked metal, and forced his legs not to tremble as he sank back down on the bed.
Avery sat down next to him, skewering him with her smoky gaze. "What's bothering you? Why are you in here alone?"
He couldn't help but crack the barest hint of a smile. "The clues, obviously, what else?"
"Well, I thought that perhaps the fact that you're suffering from pneumonia might have contributed to your isolation," said Avery, "but I should have guessed."
She inched backwards until she was sitting behind him, and she placed her hands on his shoulders, working the tensed edges of his trapezius. "Alright, walk me through it. Tell me what you know."
"You don't have to—" Grayson started, then broke into another coughing fit. When it had passed, he was sure his face was bright red. "Why are you giving me a massage?"
"Because you're tense, Gray, there aren't any other reasons to give massages. And it's alright, you're not being an inconvenience. So go on. Tell me about your clues."
"I'm struggling with the ivory cardinals," Grayson said. "I've researched white specimens of the birds, but I can't work out what it means to find one. One of us is clearly the cardinal in the poem."
Avery's hands stilled. "You know about that riddle?"
Grayson sighed. "I'm sorry. It was when I was hiding the clues from the police. I didn't even think to mention it after that."
"It's fine. We've all been handling the clues; it was stupid to think someone else wouldn't see the riddle. As for the ivory cardinals, I have no idea. My—several of the clues have had a focus on color. Black, red, white. Light and dark too. I don't know what they're talking about, aside from morals."
My clues.
Grayson had heard the unspoken words. Avery had her own clues, ones she didn't want anyone, including him, to know about. Which was fine. But why wouldn't she tell him what her clues were? Didn't she want him to help solve this?
Well, maybe not. Avery had never been one to ask for help. No, more likely was that she didn't trust Grayson. And after all, why should she? He was still keeping secrets. Big ones. Ones that could have ended this case.
He was only in it for the thrill now, the exhilaration of the game. He knew all the answers, he just wasn't sure what the clues meant. Grayson knew they all had to come back to the perpetrator, who somehow hadn't cracked yet. The killer's will was weak when it came to guilt; Grayson wondered why nothing had come to light.
Someone is keeping the killer quiet.
But why? Was it born of malicious intent? Or was someone close to the killer trying to protect them?
"Gray?"
He snapped out of his stupor. "Yes?"
"I asked if you have any other clues you haven't told me about."
Grayson wasn't sure if Avery could feel him stiffen. "No, of course not."
And it was true, it really was. He had no clues that he had not shared with her. How much had she not shared with him?
"Gray!"
Where had his mind gone? It kept drifting away. He was exhausted.
"Sorry," he mumbled. "I'm just…I need to sleep. Gonna lay down."
Even his grammar was slipping, and his rarely heard Southern accent was peeking out from behind the marble formality. This was quite undignified.
"Then sleep," said Avery quietly. "Don't fight it. You need to get better before we keep working on solving this case."
And she pulled Grayson into her, so that his head tilted back onto her shoulder, and he whispered, "I don't…Ave, you don't have to…"
"I want to," Avery whispered.
He wanted her to, too. And he was so tired. Grayson would normally stave off sleep for as long as he could, or at least he would in such a perilous time, but despite his extraordinary willpower, he knew his body needed rest to fight the pneumonia.
Without knowing how long it would be until he woke up, Grayson slept, safe for once in someone's arms.
Also for once?
He didn't dream.
Transcript of recorded conversation in the room of Alexander Blackwood Hawthorne on 01 December 2022, commencing at 09:13:42:
Xander Hawthorne: …It's too dangerous. Someone's gonna get hurt. Probably him. Definitely him.
Maxine Liu: It'll destroy all of them. Your brothers, Avery. I…I just can't believe…I don't understand…
XH: Don't say it, Max, please. I don't want to believe it.
ML: Sorry. You're right. What are we going to do?
XH: I—I have no idea. We need some, some way to cover it up. Not an alibi, none of us even remember what we were doing. That's no good.
ML: In theory, this is a horrible idea, but I agree with you. It's better for everyone if this never gets out.
XH: So how do you give someone an alibi without actually coming up with a cover story? That'd never work. The police already know everything.
ML: I mean, I guess you could make it—
XH: Max?
ML: Forget I said anything.
XH: If the issue is that you don't think we can get away with it, we totally can. You underestimate how good I am at getting away with things.
ML: Exactly.
XH: Wait, are you saying—oh. Oh my gosh, that's it. That's literally it! Max, you're a genius!
ML: I wasn't suggesting you. Someone else. Anyone else.
XH: But this is perfect. It's plausible, it's believable. I mean, aside from the fact that I have no motive at all, but we can work something out. I'll think of something. We'll think of something. Did I mention I love you?
ML: Only every hour on the hour, but it's nice to hear it again. Especially after I've just suggested framing an overly innocent man for first-degree murder.
XH: This is gonna work! I can feel it! Let's frame me!
ML: Oh, wonderful, now he's excited about getting framed.
XH: You underestimate how excited I get about things.
ML: I absolutely do not.
[End of recording.]
—XANDER—
Xander Hawthorne had accomplished many impressive endeavors in his life, the least of which included building the world's most complicated mechanism for dispensing soap, setting solid concrete on fire, and getting Grayson to laugh.
But this would be the most impressive endeavor, if he could actually pull it off.
"We're going to have to look at everything the police have from that night," Max said, pulling her laptop out of her bag. "And go off everything you remember. I'm absolutely sure we can find some way to incriminate you."
She lay down on Xander's bed, and he squeezed in between her and the wall. They were both still in their pajamas, and Xander thought he probably needed a shower—after all, they'd spent the night clinging to each other, terrified, so he'd been sweating profusely. But Max didn't seem to care; she only pressed her shoulder against Xander's as he settled into the nest of blankets.
"Okay," she said as she clicked onto the Plano Police Department webpage. "They actually have a whole page for us. Can't keep the case quiet, can they? Just because you four are a big deal doesn't mean they should broadcast your case for everyone to see."
"Maybe they want help solving it," Xander suggested. "Since they're not getting anywhere."
The new page was titled Riddles Upon Riddles: The Previously Closed Case of Tobias Hawthorne. It had lists of suspects, potential motives, and—the best part—evidence.
"Whoa, stop." Xander put his hand gently over Max's. "Sorry. I want to read the theories about why I did it."
Max scrolled up a few inches, and Xander scanned the page.
XANDER HAWTHORNE
Xander is Tobias Hawthorne's fourth grandson, and the one with perhaps the least motive to kill his grandfather. A self-described "idiot genius," he claims to have had nothing to do with the murder. Below is his statement from the night the Hawthornes were questioned about the case:
"I swear on my standing as a Hawthorne that I had nothing to do with murdering Grandpa. I didn't even know the cause of death until the other day…
I mean, nobody liked the guy. I know I didn't. But that doesn't mean I killed him. You can't rule out his friends—he didn't have any. If you go by his enemies, everyone has a motive…
Yeah, I could've done it. Hypothetically. Don't tell my brothers, but I'm pretty sure I'm the smartest Hawthorne. This is hypothetical, right?"
Despite his dubious statement, most agree that Xander does not have any particular motive: before the arrival of Ms. Grambs, he was third in line for the inheritance. The only way for him to acquire it would have been to remove both Grayson and Jameson from the equation. Given that there have been no attempts made on his brothers' lives, police believe that Xander is innocent.
Still, there is one piece of evidence incriminating him: a bottle of wine in the Hawthornes' cellar, dated exactly one hundred years before the date of Tobias Hawthorne's death, has been dusted for dermatoglyphics, revealing Xander's fingerprints. The bottle does not seem to contain any traces of poison, but some are skeptical.
Said Reddit user bookie_of_the_year: "I think disregarding the wine is a horrible idea. It's the only piece of evidence we have with fingerprints, it's stupid to assume it means nothing."
Is Xander innocent, as police believe? Or has he played us all?
"Clearly, he's played them all," Xander said, quite seriously. "Or it would appear so, given that on the night of the murder, the suspect edited the security footage in Hawthorne House. Shame he missed a camera."
"Why are you talking in third person?" Max asked.
"Because it makes me feel more like a detective. On the night of March third, 2020, Tobias Tattersall Hawthorne was murdered in cold blood by his grandson, Alexander Blackwood Hawthorne. Xander went into his grandfather's room at approximately one-fifty-two a.m.—I'm making up the time since there's no footage—and planted a carbon monoxide-emitting lantern. Beforehand, he plugged the air vents so that the gas wouldn't dissipate. By morning, Tobias Hawthorne was dead. But why did Xander do it?"
"Elementary, Watson," said Max. "It was not for the inheritance, as most believe; that motive is too obvious. No, he did it to end the suffering of himself and his brothers at the hands of the old man."
"Xander is impressed," said Xander. "He couldn't think of a motive that didn't involve him planning to kill Gray and Jamie too."
"Max thinks it was rather obvious."
"Ian wants to know what the hell you're doing," came a muffled voice from outside.
"Xander tells him to go away," Xander called.
"Ian refuses to leave."
The door opened, and Xander leaped up and ran to the conspiracy wall in a futile attempt to cover it. He slipped on one of the blankets strewn across the room, crashing to the floor as Max squeaked and pulled the covers up to her nose.
"Ian expected exactly that," said Ian, looking down at Xander.
Xander grinned sheepishly. "Xander reassures him that this is normal."
"Seriously, kid." Ian crossed his arms. "What are you doing, plotting a murder?"
"Shut the door!" Xander hissed, getting to his feet and closing the door as quietly as he could. "How long have you been standing there?"
Ian grinned. "Long enough."
"That's cliché," said Max, cautiously lowering the comforter. "How long?"
In answer, Ian took out his phone and held it up. At a tap of his thumb, Xander's voice drifted out of its speaker: "…It's too dangerous. Someone's gonna get hurt…"
Xander clapped a hand over his mouth. "That long?"
"That long," said Ian, pulling the chair away from the desk in the corner. "Now, in light of what I've heard, I have a proposition for you."
Max sighed. "I can't believe we've successfully managed to get ourselves blackmailed again."
Ian raised an eyebrow. "You've been blackmailed before?"
"Well, I haven't, but I assumed the Hawthornes had."
"You assume correctly," said Xander. Sitting down on the bed, he faced Ian with what he hoped was his most menacing expression. "What's your proposition? Be warned, if it doesn't involve scones, I might not accept it."
"We can throw scones into the deal." Ian leaned forward, smirking, fingers steepled. "I can help you frame yourself, Alexander. I can even testify that you did it, given how much you seem to want to protect this murderer of yours. I can confuse all three of your brothers about this to no end. But none of that is going to happen without payment."
"Aaaaaaand that is what?" Xander asked.
"Your soul," said Ian in what Xander thought was a very intimidating voice but which Max snorted at.
"Of course not your soul," Ian sighed after a moment. "Your brother."
"Which one?" Xander asked.
"Jamie, you idiot, who else?"
"Nobody would mind if you took Gray off our hands."
"Would you shut up and listen for a second? I—I want you to convince Jamie to stay here. At Vantage." Ian's voice had a hard edge to it, as if daring anyone to ask him to explain.
"You want him?" Xander was incredulous. "Like…to live here? Um, no offense, Ian, but I didn't think you were the type of guy to, you know…want your son. Since you sort of ignored him for, what, nineteen years?"
"Not my fault his mother took him back to the States!" Ian snapped. "I didn't even know where he was until recently. Can't a man want to get to know his kid without you bashing him?"
"Okay!" Xander held up his hands. "Sorry! I just—I have no idea what Jamie's gonna think."
"Hey, a cut of the inheritance would be fine."
"Don't count on it," said Max. "Avery would never give you any more money than she had to, you son of a beach."
Ian looked flabbergasted. "Son of a what?"
"Ian, are you lonely?" asked Xander. "You seem like you might be lonely."
"No! It's just…quiet around here, is all. You can't go poking around in everyone's business, lad; soon you'll stick your nose somewhere it's not wanted."
"I accept your deal," Xander said, sticking a hand out in the most businesslike fashion he could muster. "On one condition."
Ian sighed again. "What."
"You swear you'll never tell anyone we know," said Xander quietly. "Doing that means deleting that recording. Got it, Ian? Never."
"Not even in a court of law." Ian's voice was as solemn as Xander had ever heard it. "Got it, Hawthorne."
"Good," said Xander, and Ian took his hand and they shook.
—GRAYSON—
When Grayson woke, his chest felt much less congested, but his headache was worse than ever. He was also freezing, and for a moment he wondered if the fever was getting worse as well, but then he realized that his body temperature had less to do with his fever and much more to do with the fact that he was standing on a cliff.
Grayson stumbled back and sat down hard, cheeks stinging in the cold wind. He pressed his fingers to his temples, chest heaving as he tried to remember what had transpired. He'd fallen asleep with Avery at some point in the late morning, but the sky was pitch-dark and clouded now, and Grayson wondered with alarm how long he'd slept. An absurdly long time, clearly, and Avery must have left, given that she would have stopped him from sleepwalking if she had still been in his room.
His sleeping self seemed to have become more adept at going down stairs. Grayson knew that he must have descended the grand staircase and exited through the front doors—clearly, there was no other way down from his room—and he wondered if he'd woken anyone.
Waves crashed at the bottom of the rocky cliffs, thundering against the sound of the wind. He watched the spray, knowing it must be so cold it would feel like fire on his skin but inexplicably wanting to run through it all the same.
The island was beautiful, Grayson realized as he looked down on it. A small grove of trees softened the harsh east side, and though the grass that grew between the stones was brittle and dry, Grayson imagined it green and fresh with wildflowers creeping over the hill. He wished they could stay until the spring.
But this case would be over by then, he was sure of it. Whether it was the police or Avery or one of his brothers, Grayson knew that someone would figure it out soon. Everyone he knew was getting too close, and he wondered whether to plant another cipher or a mysterious object somewhere in Vantage, but he felt a pang of guilt at the thought of doing so. He didn't want to deceive them all any longer.
Still, if he didn't…
This was his fate. Grayson had accepted it long ago. He had never been destined to be the innocent one. He was the clear suspect, the one who could and would get away with murder. Grayson was, intellectually, perfectly capable of making everyone believe he had done it.
But emotionally? He was more fragile than he would like to admit.
Avery was getting close, but Xander was getting closer. If Grayson had been a betting man, his money would have been on his little brother, whom he knew could not be trusted to keep a secret, solving the case first. He must get there before Xander did, take the proper precautions to make sure that no one ever found out what he had seen that night.
He was the driving force in this case, a man on a mission. Grayson had the power to make or break the verdict, and he would sway it towards him if it was the last thing he did.
But power was a lonely, painful thing, something he had never wanted. He had been corrupted by it at the hands of Tobias Hawthorne, who had believed that family came first and as a result told his grandsons that the most important thing they would ever do was be a Hawthorne.
Being a Hawthorne gave people power, power they didn't want or didn't deserve. Grayson was both. Maybe he had wanted it, once, but after Avery, after the games, after this, he didn't need it anymore.
But Grayson Hawthorne was not used to feeling powerless.
Everything was slipping out of his grasp: his body, his mental and physical health, his heart. He could not recall any of them, no matter how much he wanted to, until this case was over. He was going to have to, once it was all said and done, and though regaining control of his physical self sounded preferable, he wasn't sure about his heart.
Grayson wouldn't take that back, he knew it. He could never take it back.
No, he was going to lose it, once this was over.
He should have seen it coming.
It began to rain, the drops lashing against Grayson's skin like miniature, icy knives. Some were so sharp they hurt, but Grayson turned his face up to the sky and breathed, the petrichor-scented air filling his lungs as he ignored the little jabs of pain.
That was what being a Hawthorne really was, he realized—pain. The pain of losing your heart to a girl who would eventually hate you, when Hawthorne men only loved once. It was the pain of wanting to protect your family and not knowing how. It was the pain of simply not being good enough.
Grayson should have never allowed himself to fall in love. He should have stepped aside, should have let Jameson be the only contender for Avery's heart. He still wasn't sure that she'd given it to either of them, and certainly not to him.
Avery deserved so much more than him—a liar, a fraud, a broken little bird. She didn't deserve a man who continually lied to her. Even if it was to protect her, to protect himself, to protect all of them from the horrible, heart-wrenching truth.
Grayson Hawthorne was a hypocrite, a selfish, spoiled rich kid who insisted others tell the truth when he could not bring himself to reveal his own. He wouldn't have stood for anyone else keeping this secret from him; why should he take it to his grave?
He wondered, for a split second, what would happen if he stood, ran…leaped over the precipice into the dark, roaring unknown…would they miss him? Would anyone cry over his soul lost to the waves? Or would they simply watch, murmur in soft breaths that he got what he deserved?
No, he couldn't. Grayson would not break his brothers' hearts like that. He wouldn't break Avery's heart. He could, all too well, picture what would happen if they lost him.
He did stand, but he turned around, and he walked back through the windswept grass, through the pounding rain, and told himself that he would never, ever break so far that he left this world for good.
Because, damn it, some things were too precious to gamble.