“You’re angry,” Jameson said.
“I told you—if you want something, ask. Don’t come in here talking about how I’m special. Don’t touch my face.”
“Youarespecial.” Jameson kept his hands to himself, but the heady expression in his eyes never shifted. “And what Iwantis to figure out why. Why you, Avery?” He took a step back, giving me space. “Don’t tell me you don’t want to know, too.”
I did. Of course I did.
“I’m going to leave this here.” Jameson held up an envelope. He laid it carefully on the mantel. “Read it, and then tell me this isn’t a game to be won. Tell me this isn’t a riddle.” Jameson reached for the candelabra, and as the fireplace passage opened once more, he offered a targeted, parting shot. “He left you the fortune, Avery, and all he left us isyou.”
CHAPTER 20
Long after Jameson had disappeared into darkness and the fireplace door had closed, I stood there, staring. Was this the only secret passage into my room? In a house like this one, how could I ever really know that I was alone?
Eventually, I moved to take the envelope Jameson had left on the mantel, even though everything in me rebelled against what he had said. I wasn’t a puzzle. I was just a girl.
I turned the envelope over and saw Jameson’s name scrawled across the front.This is his letter, I realized.The one he was given at the reading of the will.I still had no idea what to make of my own letter, no idea what Tobias Hawthorne was apologizingfor. Maybe Jameson’s letter would clarify something.
I opened it and read. The message was longer than mine—and made even less sense.
Jameson,
Better the devil you know than the one you don’t—or is it? Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely. All that glitters is not gold. Nothing is certain but death and taxes. There but for the grace of God go I.
Don’t judge.
—Tobias Tattersall Hawthorne
By the next morning, I’d memorized Jameson’s letter. It sounded like it had been written by someone who hadn’t slept in days—manic, rattling off one platitude after another. But the longer the words marinated in the back of my brain, the more I began to consider the possibility that Jameson might be right.
There’s something there, in the letters. In Jameson’s. In mine. An answer—or at least a clue.
Rolling out of my massive bed, I went to unplug my phones, plural, from their chargers and discovered that my old phone had powered down. With some hefty pushes on the power button and a little bit of luck, I managed to cajole it back on. I didn’t know how I could even begin to explain the past twenty-four hours to Max, but I needed to talk to someone.
I needed a reality check.
What I got was more than a hundred missed calls and texts. Suddenly, the reason Alisa had given me a new phone was clear. People I hadn’t spoken to in years were messaging me. People who had spent their lives ignoring me clamored for my attention. Coworkers. Classmates. Eventeachers. I had no idea how half of them had gotten my number. I grabbed my new phone, went online, and discovered that my email and social media accounts were even worse.
I hadthousandsof messages—most of them from strangers.To some people, you’ll be Cinderella. To others, Marie Antoinette.My stomach muscles tightened. I set both phones down and stood up, my hand going over my mouth. I should have seen this coming. It shouldn’t have been a shock to my system at all. But I wasn’t ready.
How could a person be ready for this?
“Avery?” A voice called into my room—female and not Libby.
“Alisa?” I double-checked before opening my bedroom door.
“You missed breakfast,” came the reply. Brisk, businesslike—definitely Alisa.
I opened the door.
“Mrs. Laughlin wasn’t sure what you like, so she made a bit of everything,” Alisa told me. A woman I didn’t recognize—early twenties, maybe—followed her into the room carrying a tray. She deposited it on my nightstand, cut a narrowed-eyed glance my way, then left without a word.
“I thought the staff only came in as needed,” I said, turning to Alisa once the door was closed.
Alisa blew out a long breath. “The staff,” she said, “is very, very loyal and extremely concerned right now. That”—Alisa nodded to the door—“was one of the newer hires. She’s one of Nash’s.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What do you mean, she’s one of Nash’s?”
Alisa’s composure never faltered. “Nash is a bit of a nomad. He leaves. He wanders. He finds some hole-in-the-wall place to bartend for a while, and then, like a moth to the flame, he comes back—usually with one or two hopeless souls in tow. As I’m sure you can imagine, there’s plenty of work to be had at Hawthorne House, and Mr. Hawthorne had a habit of putting Nash’s lost souls to work.”
