The photographs. The withdrawal slips. Grayson only allowed himself to focus on the latter. Evidence of who knows what.
“Sir.” The bank employee’s voice was stiff. “The box must be returned to the wall before the owner can leave.”
The owner. Acacia. Savannah with her. Grayson was well aware of how fragmented his thoughts were, but the alternative—actually thinking in any detail about what had just happened—was even less desirable.
“I’ll need a briefcase.” Grayson phrased that as neither an order nor a request, but there was difference between saying I need and I’ll need. The future tense implied that one expected the need to be met before it became pressing.
“A briefcase?”
Grayson stared him down. “Will that be a problem?”
Ten minutes later, he walked out of the bank holding a briefcase.
 |
The hotel valets were very amendable to the idea of driving the Ferrari out to him. Probably a little too amendable, but when they arrived at the bank, Grayson did them the courtesy of pretending not to notice their adrenaline-soaked exuberance.
“That was incredible!”
Per the plan, one valet drove the other home, leaving the incredible car behind. Grayson wasn’t sure how long he sat in the parking lot of that bank,
behind the wheel of the Ferrari, the briefcase on the passenger-side floor, out of reach.
He should have left the photos in the safe-deposit box. Should have— but didn’t.
What did it matter that Sheffield Grayson had kept tabs on him? My whole life. Those words managed to penetrate the forced silence in his brain. He watched me my whole life.
Grayson’s hand snaked out and pressed the ignition. As he pulled out of the parking lot, he thought about the look in the valets’ eyes. Clearly, both of them had taken a turn behind the wheel. Grayson wondered how fast they’d gone. How much of a thrill they’d allowed themselves.
Pulling onto the highway, Grayson pushed the pedal down farther—and farther. He looked at the positioning of the cars ahead of him, calculated the spacing between them. When Jameson needed to outrun something, he found an excuse to go way too fast or way too high. Only one of those was an option for Grayson at the moment.
It wouldn’t take much to push the Ferrari up over a hundred.
You’re not Jameson. What is acceptable for him is not acceptable for you. Grayson heard Tobias Hawthorne’s voice as clearly as if the old man were in the seat beside him. And do you know why?
Grayson wasn’t reckless. He didn’t dance hand in hand with unnecessary risks.
Because it’s going to be you. How many times had he been told that? And the whole time, his grandfather had known that it was a lie. Tobias Hawthorne had written his family out of the will before Grayson was even born.
It was never going to be me. Grayson’s knuckles bulged as his grip on the steering wheel tightened. A muscle in his calf tensed, his body waiting. All he had to do was press the pedal to the floor.
Silence the old man.
Stop thinking about Sheffield Grayson. And go.
Grayson switched to the left lane, and like magic, the other cars got out of the way. There was nothing stopping him now. No reason he couldn’t let the car do what cars of this sort did best.
I could fly. Let go. Say to hell with safety and rules. Something like
anger built inside him—because he couldn’t.
He didn’t get to hurt. He didn’t get to take risks or ignore potential consequences or dwell on the fact that the father he’d been certain despised him had collected pictures of him, saving them all these years.
What does it matter? He’s dead now.
Grayson switched lanes, then switched again, and the next thing he knew, he’d pulled the car onto the shoulder of the road. He managed to turn off the engine, but his other hand was still gripping the wheel.
Grayson leaned over it, breaths wracking his body like brutal, rib-breaking punches.
And then his phone rang, and somehow, he managed to drop the wheel.
He answered with his eyes closed. “Hello.”
“What’s wrong?” Nan. Grayson could practically feel his great-grandmother jabbing him with her cane as she issued that question like a demand.
“Nothing is wrong.” Say it. Believe it. Make it so.
“Young man, have you developed the notion that lying to me is a good
idea?” Nan retorted. “Of course something is wrong! You said hello.” Grayson scowled. “I say hello!”
“And now you’re yelling,” Nan grunted, and Grayson could hear her canny eyes narrowing. “Xander was right.”
Grayson’s own eyes narrowed in response. “What exactly did Xander tell you?”
“Hmmmph,” Nan replied. Grayson knew her well enough to know that
was her response—and all the answer he was going to get.
Note to self, Grayson thought, kill Xander. The thought, like Nan’s harrumphing, was familiar, and that familiarity let him breathe. Breathing let him focus. “Is everything okay?”
Nan wasn’t exactly in the habit of calling up to chat.
“Did I give you permission to worry about me?” Nan harrumphed again. “I’m not the one who answered the phone sounding like that. What happened to you, boy?”
Grayson thought about the briefcase, the photographs, what-if, Gigi, Savannah. He thought about Acacia, about Skye, about Sheffield Grayson. “Nothing.”
Nan made it very clear what she thought of that response: “Bah.”
Grayson felt his eyes close again. “Did Skye ever take pictures of us when we were young?” The question came out hoarse. “Of me?”
“When it suited her.” Nan’s tone made it clear what she thought of that. Skye had flitted in and out of her sons’ lives. Anything she did was because it suited her.
“Would she have sent any of those pictures to my biological father?” Grayson wasn’t sure why he was even asking. Skye hadn’t been present for most of the photos he’d seen. Why would it even matter if she’d sent Sheffield Grayson a picture or two?
“I don’t believe so.” Nan’s tone gentled. “Come home, boy.”
Home. Grayson thought about Hawthorne House. About his brothers. He tilted his head back into the headrest, his Adam’s apple and trachea pulling tight against the skin of his throat. He gave himself a moment—just one— and then tilted his head back down. “Nash gave me the ring you gave him.” Grayson wasn’t sure why he was even saying the words. “For safe-keeping.”
“Hmmmm.” In Nan-talk, that was a decidedly different response than
hmmmph. “Ask me how my day’s going,” she ordered abruptly.
Grayson’s instincts flared. She’d definitely called for a reason. “How is your day going, Nan?”
“Abominably! I’ve spent far too much time with those files of your grandfather’s.”
The List, Grayson thought. The files that the old man had kept on the people he’d wronged. Suddenly, Xander’s assertion that he had “connections” at Hawthorne House was a lot clearer. “Xander asked you to go through the List.”
“He told me what you’re looking for.”
My father shot and killed himself when I was four years old, a girl’s voice said in Grayson’s memory. “You found it?” he asked Nan. “Found him?”
“What do you take me for, boy? Of course I found him.”
A Hawthorne did this. “What did the old man do?” Grayson asked, his voice low.
“Bought a minority stake in this individual’s only patent.” “What was the patent for?” Grayson pressed.
“File didn’t say. Didn’t list a number, either.”
Grayson took that in. “Was there anything else?”
“A receipt. Your grandfather had flowers sent to the man’s funeral. Bit sentimental for Tobias, if you ask me.”
“What was the man’s name?” Grayson asked. What was her father’s name?
What’s hers?
“First name Thomas, last name Thomas.” Nan snorted.
“Thomas Thomas?” Grayson’s eyes narrowed. That was almost certainly some kind of code. What begins a bet? he thought. Not that. “I don’t suppose the file said anything about a daughter?”
