GUYS
SURPRISE SURPRISE WE'RE AT PART ONE OF THE CLIMAX
OMIGOSH I'M SO EXCITED HBUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU
SEND REVIEWS PLSSSSS I HAVE TO KNOW WHAT YOU THINK
THANK YOU SO MUCH TO EVERYONE I LOVE YOU GUYS!
PEACE OUT!
—XANDER—
It was five-twenty-seven in the morning on March sixteenth when the phone buzzed and shattered the lives of the Hawthornes forever.
Xander's phone didn't normally wake him up, but tonight it did. He sat up in bed and fumbled for his phone, squinting at the too-bright screen—and his breath seemed to freeze in his chest, his stomach dropping as his heart leaped into his throat.
It was a news headline for the case—there hadn't been one of those in months. Xander had dared to hope they had simply stopped coming. He should have known better.
Suspect in Hawthorne Case Convicted.
Xander clicked on the notification and scrolled through the article it pulled up, eyes widening with horror as he read.
This morning—Xander had to remind himself that Scotland was five hours ahead of Texas—a statement about the recently unearthed Hawthorne scandal was released. After nearly six months of investigation, the Houston Police Department and the courts of Texas are proud to announce that the killer of billionaire Tobias Hawthorne, implicated in the letter that is the sole evidence in this case, has been convicted and sentenced.
Today, Constance Oren, 31, was convicted of capital murder and sentenced to twenty-five years to life in prison, despite a bold claim from her lawyer that she would not receive even a year of jail time. In her final testimony, Oren stated: "The Hawthornes are behind this, mark my words…I am innocent, and I will not rest until the man who did it is brought to justice. The true killer has spilled blood today."
It was over, then. Staying away while the jury was still out was one thing—staying away when an innocent woman had been convicted of murder she had nothing to do with was another.
Xander got out of bed, pulled on a sweatshirt and jeans, and gathered everything he could from his conspiracy wall, stuffing the papers, photos, and yarn into his bag. He retrieved his burner phone and hacking equipment from the desk, and just as Xander zipped up his bag, a knock came at the door.
He froze for a moment, then gathered his wits and shoved the bag under the bed. As the knock came again, Xander yanked his jeans down—after all, he always slept in his boxers, what did it matter—and kicked them away, then flung open the door.
It was Max, dressed, packed, and terrified.
"Did you see?" she asked. "We have to go. Now, before anyone else finds out."
"Yeah." Xander retrieved his jeans and pulled them back on. "Um. Sorry about the pants. Does Ian know?"
Max nodded. "He's getting the boat ready. Do you want to book our flight? It doesn't matter if we do a transaction now, since they'll probably arrest us on the spot when we get back."
"I can. Just give me a second."
Xander put on his socks and shoes, scooped up his bag, and stepped out of his room, closing the door behind him. "Hey, do we need to grab the other clues?"
"I've got everything. We'll have to make a stop at the House to pick up the lantern—if we even get that far—but we can go to the police as soon as we're done."
"Awesome." Xander blew out a long breath. "Ready?"
"It's time," said Max, and she slid her hand into his. "But I'll never be ready."
Xander squeezed her hand gently. "Me neither."
The walk out of Vantage was one of the saddest walks of Xander's life—they passed the rooms where the others still slept, the grand hall with its broken chandelier and scorched walls, the beautiful poppy-flecked cliffs, and Xander saw memories in every single place. He tried desperately to hold back tears as he and Max descended the rain-slicked stairs, wondering if he would ever see this house and the people in it again or if his only possible existence was inside of a prison cell.
Ian was standing in the boat when Xander and Max reached the dock, and they climbed inside, pressing close together, heads ducked against the rain. As the boat pulled away, Xander pulled up a list of departing private flights and found one that left in just over two hours—perfect. He booked two one-way tickets and prayed that no one was tracking the account.
"I've got to say, I didn't think you would leave so soon," said Ian, not turning away from the steering wheel. "Are you two the only ones going?"
"I hope so," said Xander. "Try and make sure nobody else leaves—but especially not Nash."
"What about your promise? The one you made to Avery?"
"He won't be turning himself in," said Max. "I will. No promises broken."
"And what's your story?"
"Exactly what Nash did," Max told him. "We'll have to wipe down the lantern and leave a couple of prints on it, but that's all. It should be over fast."
"Doesn't seem right," Ian groused, finally glancing over his shoulder. "Throwing an innocent kid under the bus."
"It's not right to let an innocent woman get arrested for a crime one of us committed," Xander said. "They want a Hawthorne and they're going to get one."
"But you'll be locked up for a while, lad," said Ian. "Twenty-five years at least. How come you're willing to take that for something you didn't do?"
Xander sighed. "Some things are too precious to gamble."
"And you're not one of them?" Ian flipped a switch on the boat's control panel and turned to face Max and Xander. "You all say that. You all think everyone else's lives matter more than your own. I'm not saying your brother deserves to go to prison, but neither do you, Xan. You want to be free, I know you do—so let me take you home. Let me keep you all safe. Let your messed-up justice system have their murderer, because I sure as hell ain't letting them have you."
Xander stared at Ian, eyes wide and burning with tears, and for once struggled to find his voice.
"One year," said Max, breaking the silence. "They only get him for one year, and then we can bail him. That's how it works; I researched it. We'll get him out after a year."
"A lot of things can happen in a year," said Ian fiercely, his eyes shining with what might have been tears. "Things—things happen in prison. He's only eighteen. We're just going to give him to that?"
"I know it's not fair," said Xander. "I know it's not what any of us want. But what's even more unfair is letting them convict someone who has no part in this. Constance Oren didn't want to get mixed up with the Hawthornes. No one does, Ian, because we ruin everything we touch. We break people. And it's time for me to fix the things we broke."
"But not by yourself," Ian argued. "Not like this."
"This is the way it has to be." A tear escaped Xander's eye, rolling down his cheek, and he swiped it away. "I'm sorry, Ian, really. But I have to go. We knew it would happen at some point."
"Hawthornes," Ian muttered as the mainland came into view. "Stupid self-sacrificing idiots."
They were silent for the rest of the boat ride. When the prow finally bumped against the dock in the marina, Xander stood, pulling Max up beside him, and opened his mouth to say goodbye.
He never got that far. Ian wrapped his arms around Xander, who froze for a moment and then returned the embrace, trying to keep himself from bursting into tears.
"I know Jamie's my biological kid," said Ian gruffly, "but I would have been proud to call you my son."
That was a low blow on the tearjerker scale, because Xander couldn't hold back his sobs anymore. He buried his face in Ian's shoulder and, for as long as he dared, allowed himself to cry.
"You can," Xander sniffled when he pulled back. "Call me your son, I mean. Thanks for everything, Ian."
"I would do it again," said Ian, cracking a smile. "See you, lad. Come back whenever you can. I'll be waiting."
"We'll come back," said Max. "We promise."
She and Xander walked, hand in hand, down the dock, and when they reached the end, they both looked back to see Ian with his hand lifted in farewell.
Both of them waved back, and they turned away soon enough that they didn't see Ian fall to his knees in the boat, whispering a fierce and fervent prayer to the sky.
—GRAYSON—
They convicted Oren's sister. Don't come after us. Don't tell Nash.
Love you, Gray. Be safe. See you in a year.
Love,
Xan
The text was short, to the point, and utterly devastating.
Grayson sat down on his bed, staring into space and trying to make sense of the calamity that had so suddenly descended upon the Hawthornes.
Not this. Not now. Not when everything is getting better.
Xander and Max had left for Texas. By the end of the day, they would be in custody, and in a few weeks, they'd have a trial and a verdict. They'd probably both be sentenced if Max revealed anything about her part in stealing the letter. And then they would be gone, and there would be nothing any of the rest of them could do about it.
Avery. He needed Avery. She would know what to do, she always did.
Grayson dressed hurriedly—in a suit this time; he needed to look professional if he was going to convince the police not to arrest Xander. He threw what few belongings he had into his bag and headed out the door.
Just as he did, his phone vibrated again, but the message wasn't from Xander.
Come back to Texas, sweetheart.
Or your brother dies.
Grayson's heart seemed to stop, and he ran.
When he knocked on Avery's door, she came to it still in her pajamas and swiftly finger-combing her hair. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Xan's gone," Grayson rasped, his mouth dry. "Constance Oren has just been convicted. Xan and Max left for Texas this morning."
Avery stared. "But he promised."
"He's found a loophole. I believe Max intends to turn him in."
To her credit, Avery took the news in stride and was packed even faster than Grayson had been. When she was finished, both of them dashed down the stairs to where Ian sat at the counter, sipping from a glass of wine.
"We have to go after them," said Avery.
"Go ahead," said Ian listlessly. "You'll be two hours behind them, even if you leave now, but I won't stop you. Heaven knows that kid needs someone to knock some sense into him."
"You took them to the mainland, didn't you?" Grayson asked. "Will you take us as well?"
"Yeah." Ian stood, downing the last of his wine. "Get in the boat."
"Wait." Nash's voice came from the kitchen doorway. "Nobody move for a sec. What's goin' on?"
His gaze raked over Grayson, then Avery, then flicked to the bags slung over their shoulders, and Nash rasped, "No."
"I'm sorry, Nash," said Grayson, figuring there was no point in trying to hide this from his brother. "But Avery and I must leave. Xan has already gone, and we cannot let him go to the police."
"Then let me go," Nash insisted. "I'll do it, I'll go back, let them take me—you can't turn yourself in, Gray!"
"I'm not going to," said Grayson, trying to soothe Nash. "I'm going to try and talk some sense into Xan."
"But you can't go by yourself!" Nash's voice was full of fear and righteous anger.
Jameson edged around Nash into the kitchen, holding his phone like it contained the weight of the world. "Hey, um—did anyone else get a text from Xan?"
"Yes," said Grayson. "Avery and I are about to fly back to Texas to speak to him. But if we don't leave now, we won't have a chance before he goes to the police."
"Just hang on a sec!" Nash yelled, and Libby appeared behind him, presumably summoned by the shouting.
"I ain't lettin' my little brothers go down for somethin' I did!" Nash snapped. "If you run into the police at all, Gray, they'll take you, too, and I know you'll try and take the fall! You and Xan are gonna get what I should've had, and I can't live with myself if that happens, so you're goin' to have to let me go!"
"Nash, it's too dangerous," Grayson said, not daring to tell him about the stalker's text. "And I made a promise not to turn myself in. If it comes to testifying, I will say that Xan is innocent, nothing more. I will say nothing of my guilt or of yours."
"This isn't gonna go well, Gray. I can feel it. Someone's gonna get hurt if you go back."
Grayson could feel it, too, and he was just as terrified as Nash. But Xander was going to die if he didn't go to help.
"It has to be me, Nash," he said, edging backwards. "I can't tell you why, but it has to be me."
"What's wrong?" Nash asked. "Somethin'—is someone—"
Back door, Grayson mouthed to Avery. They had to leave now.
He turned back to Nash. "I love you. I'll see you when this is over."
"Gray—"
Grayson turned and ran.
He and Avery tore across the tile and out the back door, and as he slammed it shut Grayson saw Ian tackle Nash to the floor. A howl of anguished fury cut through the misty morning air, but Grayson and Avery both ignored it, sprinting around the side of the house and down the dewy cliffs toward the dock.
"The boat can't be that hard to turn on," Avery panted when they reached it. "Are there keys?"
"In the ignition," Grayson gasped. "Get in!"
He thanked God for Ian and twisted the key, and the boat's engine roared to life. Grayson stepped on the gas pedal and pulled away, pushing the boat as quickly as it could go, and looked back at Vantage one last time.
Ian, Jameson, Libby, and Nash stood on the steps just outside the front door, staring after the swiftly departing boat, and while the former two waved, Nash and Libby both sank to their knees. Libby folded Nash into her embrace as her husband started to sob.
"We will come back!" Grayson shouted over the engine. "I promise!"
He hoped he did, anyway.
The flight—mostly private, with Grayson and Avery and a few other snobbish-looking people as its only passengers—was faster than Grayson would have expected, and they landed at the Houston airport half an hour ahead of schedule, even counting the time it took for Avery to bribe security into letting her take the Winchester pistol through customs.
"Try and call Xan again," said Avery as they waited for their bags to come around on the conveyor belt.
"I am," said Grayson, furiously hitting the call button. "It keeps going straight to voicemail. Clearly, he doesn't want us interfering with this sacrifice scheme of his."
"He could still be on the plane," Avery suggested. "Or his phone is still on airplane mode. We might even beat him there."
"Not likely, considering he left at least an hour before we did. I'm going to try and track his phone."
Grayson clicked on the tracking app, selecting Xander's phone. He watched the blue circle move down the private road to Hawthorne House, not even pausing at the gates—that was strange.
"He's heading into the House," Grayson reported. "So he isn't going straight to the police. Should we go to the House or attempt to intercept him at the police station?"
"Let's see what he does," Avery decided. "We don't know what he's doing there, and besides, we can tell our Uber driver to change course whenever we need. Let's head for the House. I'll call our ride."
Grayson had never taken an Uber before—he'd always had a chauffeur when he needed one, or, less often, he'd driven his own car (though he was, admittedly, a horrific driver, given that he almost never needed to do it himself). He hoped Avery knew how to handle such things properly.
The bags drifted past, and Grayson barely managed to catch them before they disappeared back into the rubber-fringed box. He checked the blue circle again—it was stopped at the front of Hawthorne House, unmoving, and had been so for at least two minutes.
"Avery," Grayson said. "Can you check Max's phone? Xan's isn't moving. He seems to be standing in the entrance hall."
Avery pulled up Max's location—her blue circle was perfectly still, stationed in the same place as Xander's.
"Something's wrong," said Avery.
"Most definitely," Grayson agreed. "Is our ride on its way?"
"Yeah. Should be here any minute."
The Uber pulled up outside the airport five minutes later, and Grayson and Avery scrambled in the moment the car stopped. Avery instructed the driver to step on it, which she did, and they sped away toward Hawthorne House.
The ride was spent in tense silence, during which Xander and Max's circles did not move at all. After watching Avery staring worriedly at her phone for twenty minutes, Grayson sent her a screenshot of the stalker's text—it wouldn't assuage her worries, but at least she would know what was at stake.
He could be dead, whispered Grayson's eternally pessimistic brain. Xan could be dead.
He isn't, argued his gut. I would feel it if he was.
Would he, though? What if his instincts weren't as good as he thought they were?
The Uber tore along the private road, finally pulling up to the gates of Hawthorne House—which were swinging wide, unlocked and unguarded. Dread started to pool in Grayson's stomach, his solar plexus twisting itself into a knot. Why was no one at the gate? It was normally so high-security.
"Drive as quickly as you can," said Avery as she paid the driver. "The police could show up soon, and I don't want you here when that happens. The security already looks like it's been breached."
The woman nodded, and she sped off just as quickly as she'd arrived.
The House was bathed in clouded late-afternoon light, with rain just beginning to fall. It was perfectly silent, but Avery slid the Winchester pistol out of her pocket, keeping it trained on the front door.
"If there's someone hostile in there, you need a weapon," she said, glancing sideways at Grayson. "I know you have fencing swords out here, but they won't do much good in a real fight."
"We have broadswords as well," Grayson told her. "I'm not as skilled with them as I am with the épée, but I'll be alright in close combat."
Avery covered him all the way to the fencing garden, where Grayson took the broadsword he used most often from its compartment and spun it a few times, reacquainting his hands with the grip and balance. It wasn't the best weapon for what he thought was likely to be a gunfight, but he could hold his own if it came to it.
He took a deep breath as he and Avery made their way back to the front door. "Are you ready?"
She slipped her hand into his and squeezed. "No."
Grayson squeezed back. "Me neither."
They climbed the steps, let go of each other, and stepped inside.
It took a moment for Grayson for register what the scene before him was trying to show him. Whatever he had imagined, it was not this—but it was nearly as bad as what he'd feared.
Max and Xander both lay sprawled on the floor in the center of the entrance hall, a wide, wet streak of blood stretching ten feet across the marble from Max's body. Grayson's gaze flicked over both of their chests, relieved to see them rising and falling—though Max's breath was slow and shallow, while Xander's was swift and gasping. Whatever had happened, they were not dead yet.
Beside them lay a broken metal frame surrounded by glittering glass shards—the lantern. That must have been what they had returned to the House to retrieve—they wouldn't have wanted to go to the police without the murder weapon.
Above it all, at the top of the grand staircase, stood a woman: petite, slender, with dark hair and a rifle clutched in her grasp. She grinned down at Grayson and Avery as they stepped into the entrance hall, her gun noticeably not pointed at either of them, though Grayson doubted it would stay that way for long.
"Why, Grayson," said the woman. "So glad you could join us, sweetheart."
"Release my brother," Grayson said. "He has nothing to do with this."
"Unfortunately—" the woman hefted her rifle and pointed it at Xander's supine body— "since he arrived first, he has everything to do with this. Besides, where's the fun in killing you without making you suffer first?"
"He has done nothing to you," Grayson insisted. "And neither have I. Let all four of us leave, and I will do what I must to help you. That does not include turning you over to the police. We will let you leave peacefully."
The woman laughed. "You really don't know who I am, do you? What you did to me with your twisted games? I know you killed your grandfather, Grayson, but the authorities don't, and they would never believe me over a man—" she spat the word as though it disgusted her— "like yourself. So now they have what they want: a pretty little killer to put up on a pedestal, to announce to the world that their job is done. But they're wrong about me, and you and I both know that. Seeing as I've got no chance of convincing them I didn't do it, I'm going to carry out the crime they always knew I would: the murder of a Hawthorne. Because you ruin people—you take their lives and you twist them so they fit your narrative, the story you write not caring who you hurt. You ruined me, Grayson Hawthorne, and here is where your story ends."
Constance Oren jerked her gun to the left and fired.
Contrary to popular belief, Hawthornes could not dodge bullets after they had left a gun. But Grayson had already begun ducking at Constance's last words, pulling Avery down with him, and so the bullet missed both of them, instead shattering one of the high, arched windows on the north wall.
Glass sprayed out onto the front steps, and Grayson hissed, "Ave—get them out" before leaping to his feet and charging toward the stairs.
He was well aware of what a terrible idea this was—climbing up the stairs toward a shooter instead of running away from her. But Constance would have unlimited free shots at all four of them if Grayson and Avery tried to drag Xander and Max to safety a hundred feet away. Better for her to use only him as target practice.
Grayson felt at least one seam—probably more—in his suit tear as he bolted up the grand staircase, and he winced as another gunshot rang out. But he felt no pain indicating a hit, so he lunged up the last few steps and slammed the flat of his blade against Constance's rifle, trying to knock it out of her hands. She shrieked and fired into the floor, the flying chips of rock scuffing across Grayson's shoes.
From there it became almost a duel—Grayson slashed and spun with the broadsword, his only goal to get that gun away from Constance. She blocked most of his swipes with the rifle, but as long as she was using it as a sword, that meant she wasn't shooting.
Grayson stole a glance back down the stairs. Avery was trying to drag Max across the floor towards the exit, but she seemed to be having trouble. Xander was on his knees, shaking Max's shoulder to no avail. The others weren't getting anywhere—Grayson would have to incapacitate Constance for long enough to help Avery.
He slashed at her ankle, not wanting to get in any fatal shots. Constance shrieked again, and the barrel of the rifle crashed against Grayson's shin with bruising force, eliciting a little hiss of pain. He shook off the tingling sensation and swung the flat of the blade into the side of Constance's head.
She stumbled away from him, dazed, and before Grayson could lunge for the rifle again, Constance lifted the gun and fired toward Avery.
A scream tore through the entrance hall, and Grayson spun around to see Avery curled on the ground, raising her head. There didn't seem to be any blood, but—
"Gray!" Avery screamed, her voice higher than Grayson had ever heard it, and he knew something was horribly wrong when the gunshot blasted through the air—
—and straight through him.
A horrible burning sensation—not pain, not yet—exploded through Grayson's side, and something hot started to soak through his shirt and into his suit jacket. He knew he was bleeding, likely badly, but he didn't dare look—if he looked, he'd pass out, and he could not do that because he had to get that gun.
Grayson flung himself forward, throwing the broadsword aside, and seized the rifle's barrel. He kept it pointed over his shoulder, not willing to risk another shot.
Had the first one been fatal? He still couldn't feel any pain, but perhaps that was just death coming—he was definitely bleeding, he knew that—
Grayson kicked out and wrenched the rifle away from Constance, throwing it as far as he could. He heard a clattering as it fell down the stairs, then another gunshot as it, presumably, went off.
Pain started to spread across Grayson's side, and he clasped a hand to the spot just under his ribs, sucking in a breath as he felt something very warm and slippery soaking his fingers. His heart was beating too quickly, pumping too much blood to the wound, and he knew he had to stop moving, but his duty wasn't done. Constance was still awake and alert and probably going for her gun.
Where was the broadsword? He'd tossed it aside—stupid, really, but he couldn't have grabbed the rifle otherwise. It didn't matter now, but he had to hold Constance off, which meant he had to get to the sword. Where was it?
A cold, sharp sliver of ice touched Grayson's throat, and he stiffened, the pain pounding ever more fiercely through him.
There it was.
"Had enough, sweetheart?" Constance whispered, her voice as icy as the sword at his throat.
"Let them go," Grayson rasped, his knees suddenly weak and watery. The act of speaking felt like someone had plunged a knife into his side. "Please."
"Not until you're dead," said Constance, and she drew back the broadsword, but then another gunshot split the silence.
A scream, a clatter, and Grayson dropped to his knees, clenching his jaw as he struggled to focus. The fire spread outward through his ribs and his hip and his stomach, and he gasped, his vision blurring.
"Gray!"
Avery was beside him, crouching next to his trembling form, and she pulled his free arm over her shoulders, dragging him upright with great difficulty. "Come on, Gray, you have to move."
Grayson's legs were still not cooperating, and as Avery dragged him down the hallway, he felt a pang of guilt at letting her take what must have been almost his full weight. He would have supported himself more if he could, but there was no way he could walk properly.
"Why—" Grayson coughed, and a jolt of fire went through him. "Why are we going to the—the library?"
"We have to get to the treehouse," Avery explained.
"But Xan—Max—"
"Constance wants you," said Avery. "And I have a plan—but you have to stay with me, Gray, okay? You can't pass out."
"I'll try."
The journey felt much longer than it was, with every step blurry and wavering. Even so, the library's double doors were visible after only about thirty seconds—but just as they rounded the corner into the corridor, Grayson heard footsteps behind them.
"She's coming," he rasped. "Ave—"
"Pack strap," Avery ordered, and Grayson obliged, locking his arms around Avery's neck. She positively ran the rest of the way toward the doors, and Grayson looked back to see a furious Constance with her rifle aimed down the hall.
"Ave," he said warningly. "We have to go—I think she's going to shoot—"
A massive bang, and Grayson actually felt the wind from the bullet as it soared past him. "Avery!"
"Don't look!" Avery shouted, and she flung one of the doors of the library wide and ducked inside, slamming and locking it behind her.
Grayson slid off Avery's back and very nearly collapsed again, but Avery shoved her hip against his and dragged him over to the far wall, beside the rain-lashed windows. Grayson clenched his jaw so tightly he thought it might break as Avery lowered him down into sitting, likely leaving a streak of blood down the wall.
"Jacket off," said Avery. "I'm sorry, Gray, I know it hurts, but I have to see how bad it is."
"It's alright," Grayson ground out, sliding one arm out of its sleeve. "Ow—"
"Let me." Avery borderline ripped his jacket off, then unbuttoned Grayson's shirt. "I'm going to need you to take your hands off the wound."
Grayson hadn't realized his hands were on the wound. He let go of the stitch of fire and leaned his head back against the wall, wiping his sweat-soaked forehead with a very bloody hand.
"I don't think the bullet's still in you," said Avery. "It must have gone right through, but the whole cut's open, I can't tell if it hit anything major."
"If it had," Grayson rasped, "I—I think—I would be dead."
"And you're not," said Avery. "Okay, keep one hand on it. I need you to call the police."
"What—" Speaking hurt. "What are you—"
"I'm going to the treehouse." Avery's voice was steady, despite the fear in her eyes and the blood on her hands. "I need you to trust me, Gray. Don't move. Keep breathing. Call the police and tell them to be here as fast as they can. And whatever happens, stay here. No matter what you hear from outside, you don't move, alright?"
Every fiber of Grayson's being wanted to protest, to insist that it be he who laid whatever trap it may be for Constance, but he wasn't in a fit state to move, let alone climb into the treehouse.
Besides, he trusted Avery to the point where he would have jumped out the window if she'd told him to.
So he looked at her, at her wild eyes and her heaving chest, and whispered, "I promise."
"Good." Avery reached out and cupped Grayson's chin, tilting his head up a little, and kissed him. "You're going to be okay. I love you."
"You too," he managed, and that was all he got out before Avery, broadsword in hand, threw open the window and leaped out.
"Ave!" Grayson shouted. Another knife-sharp stab of pain speared through him, but he ignored it. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine!" came her faint voice. "The police, Gray!"
Right. Keeping his left hand pressed to his wound, Grayson wrestled his phone out of his pocket. His hand, soaked in scarlet, slipped on the dial pad as he shakily punched in 911.
"911, what's your emergency?" said a female voice on the other end.
"Grayson Hawthorne," he gasped. "I'm—Hawthorne House—there's a shooter, Constance Oren—"
"The escapee?" The dispatcher's voice was suddenly very scared. "She's shooting?"
"Yes." Grayson's vision was becoming steadily more blurred. "Please, you must send help."
"Is anyone injured? Are you?"
"At least three," said Grayson, fighting past the ringing in his ears. "Yes, I—I've been shot. I don't know where…where the shooter is, she…may be outside…"
Everything was spinning. Grayson curled onto his side, suddenly shivering violently. "Help…please…"
"Stay awake, sweetie," said the dispatcher's motherly, fearful voice. "Where are you? Can you tell me what room you're in?"
"Library," Grayson whispered as his grip went slack and the phone slid to the bloody carpet. "Second…floor…the others are…by the front…"
"Try to stay awake, Grayson—"
"I'm sorry," he said, and fire poured out of his side and the world went dark.