hey y'all! thank you SO much for your reviews! I really appreciate your feedback, it means a lot to me!

I hope y'all like this chapter! It's mostly a lot of fluff but it should be fun anyway. I'm hoping to finish our boys' Christmas before our Christmas has arrived, so expect another update soon!

Merry Christmas and happy Hanukkah to everyone!

see you soon!

peace out! :)

—AVERY—

Vantage's library was expansive, possibly even more so than Hawthorne House's. A single window at the far end lit the whole cavernous room, and Avery worried about the black light's usefulness, but Grayson found the pull for the blackout curtains and drew them shut, plunging the library into pitch darkness.

"Okay," said Avery to the vague presence that might have been Grayson. "Turn the black light on."

A tiny click, and suddenly the entire room was illuminated.

The ultraviolet light washed the walls with a purple glow, and both Avery and Grayson stared upward in shock. The black light was clearly very powerful, casting every shelf into stark relief and flinging shadows across the carpet.

"Alright," said Grayson. "I suppose we can't split up—to make it quicker, I mean," he added. "We only have one flashlight."

"No, we can't," Avery agreed, "but I can go scan the books while you move the light. It might go faster that way."

Grayson nodded, and they got to work. He swept the beam of the black light over every shelf, and Avery ran her fingers along the spines of the books, searching for any sign of invisible ink.

The shelves were huge, and her fingertips were tingling from touching so many books, and she was sure that Grayson's hands must have been tired from holding the flashlight, but after half an hour, Avery found something.

"Got it," she said. "Come here, Gray."

He cupped a hand over the flashlight, narrowing its range so that it focused only on the spine of the book that Avery was examining: A Court of Thorns and Roses. The word Rose had been highlighted in glowing ink, leaving the s in the dark script of the title.

Avery pulled out her phone and took a picture of the book. "On to the next one, I guess."

After that, the clues came faster. So Red the Rose. The Last Rose of Summer and Other Poems. The Name of the Rose. All with the same word highlighted, traced meticulously in shining, ultraviolet ink.

"Well," said Grayson, "I think we know what we're looking for."

"This morning," Avery remembered suddenly. "I saw roses in the kitchen."

Neither Avery nor Grayson usually ran anywhere. Both were hurried individuals, sure, but they rarely moved faster than a brisk walk. Now, though, they flew down the corridor and toward the grand staircase.

Avery's heart flung itself against her sternum, threatening to pound its way out of her chest. They were close; she could feel it.

At the bottom of the staircase, Grayson doubled over, stumbling into the railing and clutching the banister tightly as he convulsed in a coughing fit. Avery jerked to a halt, turning back, but Grayson raised a hand, motioning her toward the kitchen.

"I'll—I'll catch up," he choked out.

Avery nodded and set off again, slower this time to give Grayson a moment to recover. She really didn't need to run; it wasn't like the clue was going anywhere.

A crash sounded from ahead, and Avery broke into a run again. She turned the corner into the kitchen and gasped.

Xander knelt next to a broken mess on the floor: a scattering of scarlet, long-stemmed roses and a myriad of tiny, glittering shards of glass, all lying in a puddle of water. Xander's fingers scrabbled against the tile, fumbling desperately to pick up the shards.

He looked up, eyes wild, as Avery stepped into the kitchen, gasping, "I'm sorry! I—I didn't—" Xander cut himself off with a hiss of pain, a shard presumably having stabbed into his skin.

Avery could do nothing but stand there, staring at the remains of what had once been a clue. If there was any ink on the glass, it was gone now. Any designs were indecipherable.

That was deliberate.

Her suspicions came flooding back, and she hissed, "You don't know what you did."

"I—what?" Xander looked genuinely confused as he stood up, clutching his hand gingerly. "Avery—"

"I'm watching you, Xander Hawthorne," Avery snapped, and she turned on her heel and strode out of the kitchen.

As she passed the drawing room door, which had been left open, she stopped. Xander had exited the kitchen and gone into the drawing room through the archway that connected the two rooms. His back was almost to her, his body turned at such an angle so that she could see what he was doing, but he couldn't see her.

Xander took a small, crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and threw it into the fireplace. He watched as it burned, and Avery ducked back behind the wall, her mind racing with the shock what she had just seen.

That vase, those roses, were evidence. And Xander cradling his hand…he hadn't been cut at all. He was hiding that piece of paper in his palm.

Xander had destroyed the evidence, moments after Avery had found it. He'd known she was close.

Anyone could have been in the library, hiding behind the shelves Avery and Grayson hadn't checked, up in the rafters where they hadn't pointed the light. Anyone could have watched them leave to find the roses. Anyone could have then contacted Xander, told him they were getting too close and to destroy the clues.

So if Xander was guilty, then he hadn't put the clues there. Someone else had planted them—someone separate from the killer was orchestrating the game. But another individual entirely had both known about the clues and told Xander.

Someone at Vantage was a gamemaker.

Someone was a double agent.

And Alexander Blackwood Hawthorne was a murderer.

In the days that followed, Avery hit a roadblock.

Nothing she had was proof that Xander was the killer. Sure, she knew he'd been spotted on security footage on the night of the murder, and he had clearly destroyed evidence. The riddle she had received over text, as well as most of the other clues, also seemed to incriminate him. But none of it was real, solid, conclusive proof that Xander had in fact committed a murder.

So, on December eighth, she'd resigned herself to waiting for proof. Avery was biding her time now—she wouldn't confront Xander as she had Grayson. That presented too much risk of a denial.

Would it, though? Xander had never been able to keep a secret. How had he kept this one for so long? It had been two years and nine months since the death of Tobias Hawthorne. One would think Xander would have cracked by now.

No matter. Avery would find some kind of proof.

Lying on her bed, staring up at the canopy, she stiffened. Wasn't that the exact thought she'd had before confronting Grayson with her suspicions? Did that bode ill for this accusation?

No. The evidence was overwhelming—the bottle of wine, the obviously edited security footage. The fake mustache and the burned clue and the broken vase. If it had been enough to convict, Avery would have taken it straight to the police. But doing so would have required explaining the whole game, and she couldn't see that going over well. Who wouldn't think her insane?

For now, she would wait. Wait for Xander to slip up. Avery wished she were closer to him so she could catch any unconscious admissions.

Did Max know? Did she suspect at all? Avery didn't think so; her best friend tried to believe the best of everyone. Her own boyfriend committing a murder would be something she didn't want to know about.

"Hey, Trouble!" Nash called up from downstairs. "C'mon down! We're goin' Christmas shoppin'!"

Christmas shopping? When they were quite possibly wanted fugitives and in an unfamiliar country where they could very easily lose each other to the police? That was a downright idiotic idea.

But it was also a very Hawthorne thing to do, and Avery was sure that none of the boys would let her get arrested, so she put on her coat and went downstairs to join the others.

"Ian's lettin' us take his boat over to the mainland," Nash announced as Avery stepped into the entrance hall. "Everyone got their cash? We'll swap it out at an ATM. Gray, Jamie, go put jackets on. I don't care how bad y'all think you look in them, you ain't freezin' to death on my watch."

Grayson and Jameson trudged back upstairs, and Avery let her gaze travel over the rest of the assembled group. Ian had on a long coat and a straight-up top hat, which Avery had never seen anyone wear, even at all the black-tie events and dinner parties she'd been to. Libby was clutching Nash's arm, whispering something into his ear, at which Nash laughed—giggled, really—and planted a soft kiss on his fiancée's forehead.

And Xander and Max—they were standing by the front door, palms pressed together, speaking in low voices and laughing as though nothing was wrong. As though Xander hadn't had anything to do with the crime that had nearly destroyed the Hawthornes' and Avery's lives.

Max couldn't know, could she? It was either that or she was turning a blind eye to the treachery. How could Avery's best friend live with that?

For a moment, a tiny seed of doubt pushed its way into Avery's mind. Was it possible that she could be wrong again? Yes, always; she wasn't perfect—but surely not this time…

Even if she was right, though, she couldn't hate Xander. She just couldn't, even if he had killed his grandfather—it was the same reason she couldn't hate Grayson when she'd suspected him. The Hawthorne boys had their flaws, as did Avery, as did everyone, but they were, above all else, good.

I could never hate you. No matter what you do, Avery, no matter what secrets you keep, I will never think of you that way.

If Grayson wouldn't hold anything against her, even such a horrible sin, what right did she have to hold it against him or his brothers?

Every right, said the logical majority of her brain. Just because the boys wouldn't despise you for committing murder doesn't mean you have to condone theirs.

But how is that fair? asked her heart. How can you expect them to support you when you suspect another Hawthorne every day?

Avery pushed aside the warring voices in her head. Today was for fun, bonding; it was to let them all get out of the house and spend the day together. It was not for obsessing over morals and ethics.

But as they piled into Ian's boat, snowflakes lightly melting into the ocean, Avery couldn't help but wonder if Tobias Hawthorne wasn't the one that had destroyed their lives.

—GRAYSON—

It had been almost three years since Grayson Hawthorne had been caught in a puffer jacket, and he had hoped to keep it that way.

Alas. He should have realized it was a lost cause—even though Texas rarely received snow, he should have prepared himself for the occasion. The wearing of a puffer jacket was not to be taken lightly.

Xander, sitting next to Grayson in the boat, flung his arms around his brother, burying his face in Grayson's shoulder. "You're so fluffy!"

Grayson stiffened. "Let go, Xan."

"But you look like you need snuggles!"

"Snuggles?" Grayson asked, trying halfheartedly to pull away. "I don't need snuggles, Xan—"

"But you're so sad all the time," said Xander, staring up at Grayson with huge dark eyes. "Seriously, Gray, you need all the hugs."

What did one do with hugs? Grayson wasn't sure. He patted Xander awkwardly on the back. "Um. Thank you, Xan. That, uh, it makes my day. Obviously. Because that's what hugs are for."

Xander squeezed Grayson tightly. "Aw, thanks, Gray! I knew you'd get it!"

Miraculously, he let go after that, and Grayson stared at the floor of the boat, sure his cheeks were an embarrassing shade of scarlet. Was anyone laughing? He wouldn't have blamed them.

He glanced up at Avery, who was sitting across from him, and was startled to find an expression of intense sadness on her face. When she caught Grayson's eyes on her, she schooled her features into a neutral mask, tilting her head as though she were confused.

She thinks it's Xan.

Grayson wasn't sure why the thought had come to him. But as far as he knew, Avery didn't know about his attempt to frame himself, so logically, she had to be upset about Xander. Why did she believe that the clues pointed to him? Had something happened?

No.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

Grayson's mind flew back to a week ago, when…when he'd…

He and Avery had found the clues in the library, the reiterations of rose. Grayson remembered seeing the vase, had thought nothing of it until Avery remembered it too. He'd doubled over in his coughing fit at the bottom of the stairs, trying to buy time, and texted Xander as fast as he could. Smash the vase. All he knew was that he had to keep any further clues from Avery—to protect her, to protect himself, to protect them all.

Xander didn't even know why Grayson was asking. He'd asked no questions, just swept the vase off the counter to its doom. Xander hadn't even told Grayson what the paper he'd found on the underside of the vase said—that was how fast it had been. Grayson didn't think he remembered.

Avery must have found Xander in the kitchen with the broken remnants of the vase. When she'd told Grayson not to continue with the case so his feelings would be spared, Grayson had already assumed that Avery had deduced that the murderer was a Hawthorne. Clearly, though, this had solidified her suspicions. Avery now believed that Xander was a killer.

And it was all Grayson's fault.

What have I done?

He wrestled with his thoughts for the rest of the boat ride, and when it docked in the same harbor as their last trip to the mainland, Grayson barely registered it. But his mind was soon pulled away from the worry as the bustling chaos of the Scottish streets overwhelmed him.

"Don't you all go and get yourselves arrested!" Ian warned as Nash and Libby started off rapidly. "I'm not losing my tenants and getting in trouble! You can pair off to your heart's content, just do it discreetly, okay? Jamie, you're coming with me. I'm going to treat you to the finest of Scottish whiskey."

"That seems…not very discreet," said Jameson as Ian seized him by the elbow and dragged him away.

Ian grinned. "Well, then, we die like men."

Nash tipped his hat. "See y'all later. Don't get in trouble."

He and Libby hurried away, Libby's arm hooked through Nash's. Xander and Max left a moment later, with Max tearing through the street and Xander laughing as he tried to catch up.

"Shall we?" asked Avery. Grayson's face warmed immediately as she continued. "I mean, it's not like we have to worry here."

"Then we certainly shall," said Grayson, and he offered his arm. Avery took it, and they set off down the high street.

Snow continued to fall lightly, most likely massacring the gelled style of Grayson's hair, but he tried not to care. With Avery on the trail to the answer, the answer to everything—and with it, his own exposure—he had to treat every moment with her like it was their last.

"Where do you want to go?" Avery's gaze was fixed on Xander and Max, who were still ahead of them, laughing as they dodged pedestrians.

Grayson glanced sideways at Avery. "I'm in the market for new suits."

"Suits?" Avery still wasn't looking at him. "No offense, Gray, but that seems a little…I don't know. Boring."

He screwed up his face in mock offense. "Are you insinuating that I, of all people, am boring?"

She finally looked over at him, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "Maybe. Your clothes are, at least. Why don't we go find you something a little more relaxed? Laid-back? It'll do wonders. You look like an ice sculpture all the time now."

"Excuse me?" Grayson asked. "An ice sculpture?"

"Well, you're death-pale, and your cheekbones could cut metal. Besides, you've just had pneumonia, we'd better get inside before you freeze to death."

Grayson wanted to point out that he was in no danger of freezing to death, what with the blasted puffer jacket and all, but it was, in fact, very cold, and privately he had to admit that being indoors sounded like heaven.

They stopped in front of a dimly lit clothing store, and as Avery pulled him inside, it struck Grayson how very different this establishment was from the ones in Texas that he usually frequented. The clothing on display looked to be made of simple cotton and probably polyester, and the price tags, when he inspected one, were about five times less than what he normally saw.

"I know it's probably cheaper than you're used to," said Avery quietly. "But I think we should try not to stand out so much while we're here. Hopefully we'll be less recognizable."

"It's alright," Grayson assured her. "Regardless of the establishment, there is a shopper in every family, and you are about to learn which of the Hawthornes it is." He couldn't help but smile, a hint of mischief in his grin.

"Let's look at sweatshirts," Avery decided, pulling him toward a shelf. "I want to see you actually looking comfortable."

"I am wearing a puffer jacket," Grayson protested, but he let Avery drag him over to the sweatshirts.

The sweatshirts came in various unappealing shades, such as neon pink and pale brownish orange, but Grayson managed to find one the color of ash—very much like Avery's eyes, he realized as he took three different sizes of it.

"Do you always take three of everything?" Avery asked as he did the same thing with a sage green sweatshirt.

"Yes," he told her, rummaging through a rack of jeans—nice jeans, of course, nothing ripped or painted. "The size I think I am, the one above, and the one below."

"And—let me guess—you get upset when you're not the size you think you are."

Grayson laughed. "Well, I try to be consistent."

Once Grayson had collected more clothing than he was proud of, they went to the women's section for Avery. She selected a few tank tops, her own sweatshirt—a cream color that Grayson privately thought would look very nice on her—and several pairs of sweatpants. Avery insisted that Grayson try said pants as well, so he retrieved a pale, somewhat beige pair before they both retreated to the dressing rooms.

The fluorescent lights were too bright, and Grayson winced at the harsh glow as he shut the door behind him. He turned to the mirror, shedding his puffer jacket and letting it drop to the floor.

Off came the tie, the suit, the dress shirt, until Grayson stood in only his boxer shorts in front of the mirror. He stepped into the sweatpants and cinched the string tight—too tight.

Well, no, not really—it was still comfortable, and he could breathe—but it surprised him, how much of the string was still hanging out of the waistband. Grayson rarely wore sweatpants, of course, but he had one pair he occasionally used for pajamas. They were the same size, possibly even the same brand. The string had never had to go that tight.

Grayson looked at his reflection more closely. Still sculpted, still smooth and austere, but…

The faint outline of the bottom of his rib cage may as well have been as commanding of his attention as the lights above him. And his cheekbones—while always prominent—did, in fact, look as though they could cut through metal. How much of a toll was stress taking on him?

You're here to have fun, Grayson reminded himself. Not obsess over the case, or the move, or the lies.

It was a side effect of the old man's reign, he supposed, the drive for every Hawthorne man to look perfect, statuesque, flawless. Tobias Hawthorne had always emphasized the aristocratic aesthetic—and who could blame him? With their lives on display for all of America, there was no other way for them to look.

Grayson pulled the green sweatshirt over his head and studied himself. The loungewear was comfortable, he would give it that. He supposed he could let himself be caught in it for a day or two.

The gray sweatshirt was even more comfortable, and he peeked tentatively out of his dressing room to find Avery dressed in a white tank top and a pair of black sweatpants. She was barefoot, and dark strands falling from her ponytail lay softly on her shoulders.

Even in a tank top, Avery Grambs was a vision, nay, a goddess.

Grayson swallowed, giving Avery a slightly flustered smile. "You…you look lovely, Avery."

She cracked a smile in return. "And you look ridiculous."

"Do I really?"

"No. It's just…so different. Not that it looks bad—I think I prefer you in sweatpants, actually. But it's your call."

Grayson shrugged. "It's nearly Christmas. And we're in Scotland. What repercussions could possibly come of it?"

They tried on a few more outfits—Grayson's included a hoodie and a football jersey—then paid for the clothes, and both Grayson and Avery changed in a public restroom. The temperature had dropped with the arrival of a freezing wind, and a suit jacket was no longer—well, suitable. The two sweatshirts, layered on top of each other, did make for a warmer experience, especially when paired with the puffer jacket. Still, so many layers made Grayson feel rather like a penguin. Avery, when told this, dissolved into laughter.

Their next stop found them at a tiny, stiflingly warm pretzel shop, where they ran into Max and Xander. The latter was inexplicably dressed in a suit—a dark gray ensemble, with the jacket and half the shirt unbuttoned. A fluffy white beanie completed the already outrageous outfit, and Grayson shuddered.

"What is the matter, my good fellow?" Xander asked in an overly posh accent as Max giggled. "Can't handle my radiance?"

"Can't handle your idiocy," Grayson retorted. "Are you attempting to cosplay as me? Because I am not, in any way, British."

"Of course." Xander pulled the knot of an imaginary tie up to his neck. "I'm Gray, I'm the heir apparent and I don't like you. Sinister eyebrow arch!"

Grayson arched his own eyebrow, finding Xander's attempt less than impressive. "Other than the mimicry of my facial expressions, it was a remarkable effort. Though I must insist that you lose the hat."

"Fear not, dear brother, for I shall—Gray, you're wearing sweatpants."

Grayson wondered desperately how to either burn the pants or knock out Xander without anyone noticing. Max was still on the verge of a fit of laughter, and Xander was already reaching for his phone, presumably for blackmailing purposes.

"No pictures," Grayson said sharply, catching Xander's wrist and removing his brother's phone from his grasp. "Don't you have anything better to do, Xan?"

"Oh, yeah!" Xander's whole face lit up. "You've gotta try the cinnamon sugar pretzels! I had like five of them, they're that good."

After some negotiation, Grayson agreed to try a singular pretzel. Avery ordered one of her own, and as they stood in line, waiting for the pretzels to be ready, Grayson murmured, "Thank you."

"For what?" Avery asked.

"For…" Grayson trailed off. "For a good day."

Avery shrugged. "All of you deserve at least one."

She stretched up slightly and pressed a kiss to his cheekbone. "Especially you, Gray."

He smiled back, reveling in the novelty of the feeling. "You too, Ave."

Their order came, and Avery went to pick it up. Grayson sat down at Xander's tiny table, his phone vibrating in his pocket as he did so.

He pulled out the device and scanned the screen, his entire body tensing as he read the text.

What of the rose? O! scarlet sign

Which lovers' hope adorns,

But warning heed! For darkened blood

Is drawn by fairest thorns.