I walked over to one of the pinball machines, pressed a button, and it surged to life.
I glanced back at Nash. “I can wait,” he said.
I should have stayed focused. He was leading me to the final library—and possibly the location of the Davenport and the next clue. But one game wouldn’t kill me. I gave a preliminary flip of the flipper, then launched the ball.
I didn’t come anywhere near the top score, but when the game was over, it prompted me for my initials anyway, and when I entered them, a familiar message flashed across the screen.
WELCOME TO HAWTHORNE HOUSE, AVERY KYLIE GRAMBS!
It was the same message I’d gotten at the bowling alley, and just as I had then, I felt the ghost of Tobias Hawthorne all around me.Even if youthoughtthat you’d manipulated our grandfather into this, I guarantee that he’d be the one manipulating you.
Nash walked behind the bar. “Refrigerator is full of sugary drinks. What’s your poison?”
I came closer and saw that he wasn’t kidding when he saidfull. Glass bottles lined every shelf of the fridge, with soda in every imaginable flavor. “Cotton candy?” I wrinkled my nose. “Prickly pear?Bacon and jalepeno?”
“I was six when Gray was born,” Nash said, like that was an explanation. “The old man unveiled this room the day my new little brother came home.” He twisted the top off a suspiciously green soda and took a swig. “I was seven for Jamie, eight and a half for Xander.” He paused, as if weighing my worth as his audience. “Aunt Zara and her first husband were having trouble conceiving. Skye would leave for a few months, come back pregnant. Wash, rinse, and repeat.”
That might have been the most messed up thing I’d ever heard.
“You want one?” Nash asked, nodding toward the fridge.
I wanted to take about ten of them but settled for Cookies and Cream. I glanced back at Oren, who’d been playing my silent shadow this whole time. He gave no indication that I should avoid drinking, so I twisted off the cap and took a swig.
“The library?” I reminded Nash.
“Almost there.” Nash pushed through to the next room. “Game room,” he said.
At the center of the room, there were four tables. One table was rectangular, one square, one oval, one circular. The tables were black. The rest of the room—walls, floor, and shelves—was white. The shelves were built into three of the room’s four walls.
Not bookshelves,I realized. They held games. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of board games. Unable to resist, I went up to the closest shelf and ran my fingers along the boxes. I’d never even heard of most of these games.
“The old man,” Nash said softly, “was a bit of a collector.”
I was in awe. How many afternoons had my mom and I spent playing garage-sale board games? Our rainy-day tradition had involved setting up three or four and turning them all into one massive game. Butthis? There were games from all over the world. Half of them didn’t have English writing on the boxes. I suddenly pictured all four Hawthorne brothers sitting around one of those tables. Grinning. Trash-talking. Outmaneuvering each other. Wrestling for control—possibly literally.
I pushed that thought back. I’d come here looking for the Davenport—the next clue.Thatwas the current game—not anything held in these boxes. “The library?” I asked Nash, tearing my eyes away from the games.
He nodded toward the end of the room—the one wall that wasn’t covered in board games. There was no door. Instead, there was a fire pole and what appeared to be the bottom of some kind of chute. A slide?
“Where’s the library?” I asked.
Nash came to stand beside the fire pole and tilted his head toward the ceiling. “Up there.”
CHAPTER 65
Oren went up first, then returned—via pole, not slide. “Room’s clear,” he told me. “But if you try to climb up, you might pull a stitch.”
The fact that he’d mentioned my injury in front of Nash told me something. Either Oren wanted to see how he would respond, or he trusted Nash Hawthorne.
“What injury?” Nash asked, taking the bait.
“Someone shot at Avery,” Oren said carefully. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you, Nash?”
“If I did,” Nash replied, his voice low and deadly, “it would already be handled.”
“Nash.” Oren gave him a look that probably meantstay out of it. But from what I’d been able to tell, “staying out of it” wasn’t really a Hawthorne trait.
“I’ll be going now,” Nash said casually. “I have some questions to ask my people.”
