The next morning, after reassembling the box with the fake journal inside and sending it back with Gigi, Grayson found himself picking up the briefcase of photographs from the safe-deposit box. He made his way through the wing where he and his brothers had spent hours upon hours playing as children, up to their childhood library—the loft library. Behind one of the bookshelves, there was a hidden staircase. At the bottom of the stairs, there was a Davenport desk.
Grayson opened it and found two journals inside: Sheffield Grayson’s original and his translation. Grayson opened the suitcase and methodically began to pull out photographs of himself—nineteen years of photographs, starting the day he was born—and place them in the desk.
Faceup this time.
When he came to the photograph he’d paused on before, he turned it over in his hands, and looked at the date on the back. The wrong date. And then he paused.
Grayson searched through the photos, for another one he could precisely date. The year was right. The day was, too.
But the month was wrong.
Grayson grabbed another picture, then another. The month is always wrong.
He hadn’t let himself spend much time thinking about these pictures, about what might have led a father who had made it very clear that he was not wanted to take and keep them. Maybe part of it was a sense of possession. A desire for a son. But these pictures had been in a box with the
withdrawal slips that served as a key for decoding the journal. And in that journal, Sheffield Grayson had documented illegal transactions by identifying the countries in which he kept accounts. Just the countries.
There hadn’t been a single account number, no routing numbers, no numbers at all.
 |
It took Grayson three days to piece together all of the account information, using the numbers on the back of the pictures—the wrong months, in chronological order based on the photos they corresponded to. There were seven accounts total, millions of dollars.
All of it untraceable.
When he was sure he had it all, Grayson called Alisa. “Hypothetically, if information about all of Sheffield Grayson’s offshore accounts somehow made its way to the FBI, how likely do you think it is they’d keep looking for the man himself?”
Alisa considered the question. “Hypothetically,” she said, “if the right strings were pulled? Very unlikely.”
Grayson hung up the phone. It was as good as done, another thread tied off, another secret buried—for good, he hoped.
Gigi knows the truth, and I didn’t lose her. She knows, and she didn’t leave.
Later that night, Grayson unpacked the bag he’d taken with him to London and Phoenix. He unpacked the velvet ring box that Nash had entrusted to his keeping. And for the first time since Nash had given him the damn thing, when that question echoed in his mind, Grayson didn’t run from it.
Why not you, Gray? Someday, with someone—why not you?
He thought about the made-up story he’d spun for Gigi about his “girlfriend,” about meeting someone at the damn grocery store buying limes.
He thought about phone calls and riddles, about burying himself in his work, about Nash breaking things off with Alisa, certain that there was something wrong with him.
About the way Nash fit with Libby.
Moving with purpose—the way he always did—Grayson took the black opal ring out of the box and turned it over in his hand. He stared at it, at the flecks of color in the jewel, at the diamond leaves that surrounded it, and he swallowed.
“Why not me?”
