...surprise?

(it's 12:31 a.m. where I live and I'm posting)

(dear guest: you are totally good! I'm so happy you're reading!)

sorry for the short chapter! BUT I COULD NOT WAIT I HAD TO GIVE THIS TO Y'ALL

anyway-

MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

complaints, grievances, howlers, and death threats can be placed in reviews or in my dms!

ENJOY YOUR MURDERER REVEAL MY DEAREST VIEWERBASE

(I WILL HIDE NOW WHILE YOU THROW DARTS AT ME)

PEACE OUT

—GRAYSON—

Grayson blinked awake in his nest of pillows, feeling more rested than he had in days—weeks, probably. Melatonin did wonders for him, apparently. He would have to take it more often.

What had woken him? It was three-twenty-six in the morning, the moonlight still silver-blue on the floor, the stars still flaming stark white against the darkened sky.

He went to use the bathroom—perhaps that had been it. But as he returned to Avery's room, casting a long glance at her sleeping form—still breathing, no new blood—he didn't think so. Something else had brought him out of sleep.

Grayson's gaze landed on his phone, faceup next to his pillows, and he realized that it was blinking, lighting up with a new text.

That was it, surely.

He collapsed into the pillow nest, picking up his phone, and discovered that he had not one, but two texts: one from Avery, one from a number he had never seen before. That never boded well.

Breathing deeply in an attempt to calm his suddenly racing heart, Grayson opened Avery's text first. It had been sent several hours ago—he had slept for most of the day, when he should have been helping her. At least she'd had Nash.

Hey, said Avery's text. Nash and I figured some things out. Here's what we've got:

Most of the clues reference directions—the poem about the roses refers to a compass rose, and the message on the wall stands for the acronym for the cardinal directions. The circle cipher and its keyword both reference the compass, too.

Any thoughts? I can talk this out with you when you wake up. Sleep well.

Love you xx

Despite his apprehension, Grayson smiled. His brothers—all of them were just that kind of guy—often said love you (or ily, or xx, or sent multicolored heart emojis) in texting, but to get that kind of message from a girl? That was something to boast about to them. Instant victory.

He took another deep breath. Time to see whatever this new number wanted. Grayson wanted to hope it was nothing—another university or, oddly enough, fencing program wanting him to look into attending. Perhaps a scammer, wishing to steal money that no longer mattered to him.

Deep down, though, he knew that wasn't the case. In the middle of something as huge and terrifying as this? New numbers were never that innocuous.

Grayson clicked on the new text, and his heart sped up to a much higher rate than he would have liked.

Hello, Grayson Hawthorne.

You may not know this, but you ruined my life. You know what happened, but they don't.

Come back to Texas, you spoiled scum. You don't know what you did to me. To my family.

You have much to pay for, sweetheart.

The hairs on the back of Grayson's neck stood up, and his palms started to sweat as he tapped out a response.

Who are you and how did you get this number?

Asked around, said his stalker—if that was what you could call them. There are always answers for those who wish to find them.

Tell me who you are, Grayson said.

You know who I am. You know what they have done to me is wrong.

Tell me.

Come back to Texas, sweetheart, said the stalker. Release a statement of your guilt. I know that is what you want. You will take your sentence and let the innocents go.

I will not be taking any kind of sentence, Grayson typed. And I have ruined many people's lives. Tell me who you are and what I have done to you.

I am your collateral damage. You have accused me of your own sins.

There was a pause, the three little dots that signified typing flickering in and out of view.

Once more: Come back to Texas.

Goodbye, Grayson Hawthorne.

The sun woke up with Nash, who in turn woke up Grayson by shoving a plate of eggs and toast in his face.

"Breakfast!" Nash shouted. "C'mon, Gray, everyone's already up!"

"There is no way," Grayson mumbled into his pillows.

"You're right," called Avery. "It's just us three. But Nash made breakfast—we thought you should eat."

Grayson sat up and raked his fingers through his hair, trying to make it slightly less disheveled. He had let his composure slip in recent days; he knew that. Before the case, before Vantage, even, he would never have slept on the floor. He would never have dressed in sweatshirts or let himself go barefoot or cried.

But that had been the old Grayson.

He liked this one better.

The breakfast Nash had made was excellent, although Grayson couldn't eat more than half of it—which wasn't a problem, as Nash served as his garbage disposal. When the plates had been cleared away, Libby came in to speak to Nash, and both of them left the room, leaving Grayson alone with Avery.

He sat down on the end of her bed, legs crossed, and leaned forward. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"Are you?" Grayson arched an eyebrow.

"Are you?" Avery countered. "You look awful, Gray, believe me."

He likely did—he'd been avoiding the mirror, but the cut on his face was certainly an eyesore, and he knew his hair was less than styled. But Grayson didn't think his current state could hold a candle to Avery's.

"I'm well enough," he said. "You, on the other hand, are wearing a cervical collar and have twenty-six stitches in your forehead."

"Nash said your ribs were bruised," Avery pointed out. "Shouldn't you take ibuprofen? I don't want you to be in pain."

"I'll take it if you will." Grayson held out a hand. "Deal?"

Avery laughed and shook his hand. "Deal."

Grayson retrieved the container of Advil from the counter in the bathroom and shook out four capsules. Avery swallowed hers dry, but Grayson had always been atrocious at taking pills—he could only get them down with a glass of water from the sink.

"Now that that's settled," said Avery, "I have to figure this out."

"Would you like me to leave?" Grayson asked.

"Of course not. I need someone to celebrate with when I inevitably piece it all together. Besides, you only know the answer, not what the clues mean. You're just as in the dark about this as I am."

"Alright." Grayson pulled out his phone. "I'll start taking notes. Before we begin, though, there's something you—and honestly, everyone else—need to know."

"Not another case update from the police?"

"No, although I would rather it be that." Grayson opened his texting conversation from the night before and handed the phone to Avery. "Do you think we should be concerned?"

Avery's brow creased in worry as she read. "Concerned? I'm a lot more than just concerned, Gray. Someone at home—someone who wants to hurt you—has your number. How can we go back knowing someone like that is waiting for us?"

"Whoever they are," Grayson said, "they have not explicitly threatened me."

"Which is going to make it much harder to go to the police with that text," Avery sighed. "The lack of an explicit threat…I don't like that. They could claim they never threatened you. But saying you have much to pay for? That sounds like they might want you dead."

"They wanted me to go to prison," Grayson said. "Not to death row."

"But prison could be death row," Avery argued. "You could get the death penalty for first-degree murder—in Texas, at least; I researched it. And I'm not letting anyone in this house get that kind of punishment. Especially you. And especially not for something you didn't even do."

"Hey." Grayson kept his voice soft. "We're going to be fine. I would never go back to Texas without you. I can promise you that I won't leave until everyone else is ready to come with me, and even then, I won't go playing sacrificial lamb."

He cracked a smile. "God knows we've had enough of that."

"We have," Avery sighed. "Alright. Let's…we'll talk about this later, with everyone. Right now, we need to focus on the clues."

"Of course. What do you have?"

She told him in detail about the roses, about the writing on the wall and the circle cipher with its strange keyword. Grayson loved the way Avery's eyes lit up when she was talking about a game—there was a fire in them, a passion that turned her deep-ash eyes to smoldering coals fresh out of flame.

He wondered if his eyes ever looked like that when he did something he loved.

He wondered if they looked like that when he looked at her.

"Anyway," said Avery, "I have no idea what the pyramid or the chessboard have to do with anything. They make absolutely no sense—our only two clues that aren't scraps of paper or texts, and they don't seem to fit anywhere. The pyramid's gone, obviously, but we're missing something about the chessboard."

Grayson nodded. "It's incredibly ornate, set up very deliberately. There must be something about the positioning of the pieces that we haven't seen."

"The positioning…" Avery stared at the comforter pulled over her legs, looking deep in thought. "The pieces can't face any particular direction, or I'd consider that. But there's definitely something weird about the fact that this is an impossible chess game. There's no way three of the black pawns could…could…"

"What is it?" Grayson asked, his voice low. He could sense that they had stumbled upon a catalyst.

"There are only three," Avery whispered. "Two down, one up. Two watch from afar with unseeing eyes."

It took Grayson a moment to remember what she was quoting—the riddle from inside the old man's obelisk. The very first clue they'd looked for and found.

"There are only three pawns," said Avery, "because one of you is the rook. And it's not you. You were the one with the secret in the riddle—one hides a secret in a broken mind."

"Avery." Grayson was starting to tremble. "Please—please don't say it loudly."

"I'm not there yet, Gray, hold on!"

He could see the gears turning in the vast machine of her mind. She was close. He could feel it. His mind was taking the same path as hers.

"What do directions have to do with any of it?" Avery hissed, and Grayson flinched at her tone. She wasn't angry with him, he reminded himself. Just frustrated as she closed in on the most important secret of their lives.

"The chessboard doesn't have directions," she said. "I don't understand."

"You're right," Grayson said. "It doesn't. But you could, depending on where you were standing."

All of the blood drained from Avery's face, and she gasped, fumbling to pick up her phone from where it lay on the comforter. "I didn't even think to show you my clue—here—that's it, Gray, that's the answer."

Grayson took the phone and read the clue, his heart thumping so loudly in his ears that he was amazed he could still hear Avery over it.

storms on the horizon a light in the hall

he saw the dark blades that were going to fall

from tyranny incarnate freedom he'll bring

the child of shadows west of the white king

"The ivory cardinals," he breathed. "The directions on the chessboard—from white's point of view."

"And the child of shadows," Avery murmured, her eyes glazed over. "The rook. The black piece ready to checkmate."

Grayson's entire body was shaking. He'd waited so long for the pain of keeping this secret to be over, but now that it was so near, all he could feel were drumbeats of doom echoing in his chest.

"The rider, the fighter, the player, the brains," said Avery, and it sounded like a thousand voices were speaking through her. "The ancient tyrant is holding the…the reins."

She pointed to the white king. "He's facing forward—true north. To his right is east. To his left, where the rook is, is west. The child of shadows west of the white king."

The world was crashing in, falling around him, and Grayson could only pray for salvation.

"West," Avery said, and her finger rested on the square, the innocent little square labeled B1.

"B." She ripped the black piece off the chessboard and held it up to the light, where it shone brilliant bloodstained ebony.

"Rook," she finished, and Grayson very nearly let out a strangled cry of relief and agony.

Avery's voice was deadly calm. "Westbrook."

All Grayson could do was nod.

Just then, Nash walked back into the room, Libby just behind him, and the moment they saw Grayson and Avery, sitting on the bed, the clues spread out and the rook held triumphantly in Avery's hand, their faces went whiter than the newly fallen snow.

Avery looked at Nash, and Nash looked at Avery, and Grayson watched and prayed with all he had that this revelation, this horrible blinding irrevocable truth, wouldn't destroy everything they all held dear.

"Checkmate," said Avery.

The rook swept down, the white king fell, and the whole world fell with him as Nash began to cry.