The Inheritances Game (Jameson Hawthorne)

Ruminating

I tried to ruminate, but my mind was all over the place. Why was the story so important? What were we missing? What happened to Toby? The son who left. The son who stayed. The Father. If I was reading into this correctly, Toby's capture was one of these people. Who was Toby? Toby's adopted.

"I shouldn't have said anything," Eve said hoarsely, I just realized I was pacing too much. "But after he cut Toby off—" 

"It wouldn't have mattered if you'd stayed silent. We would have ended up in the exact same place." I said stopping to look at her.

"Not exactly." Jameson came to a stop directly in front of me. "Think about what he said after Eve interrupted—and the way he referred to Avery." 

"As the heiress," Avery replied, "The one Tobias Hawthorne chose." 

I swallowed. "The prodigal son is a story about inheritance and forgiveness." 

"Everyone who thinks that Toby was kidnapped as part of a giant forgiveness plot," Nash said, his drawl doing nothing to soften the words, "raise your hand." All our hands remained down. 

"We already know this is about revenge," Avery said harshly. "We know it's about winning. This is just another piece of the same damn riddle that we aren't meant to solve. He wants us driving ourselves crazy, going over and over it, he wants us ruminating. And what's even the point? He's not done yet, and he's not going to give us what we need to solve this until he wants it solved." I'll be in touch. Our adversary was like a cat that had a mouse by the tail. 

"We have to try," Eve said with quiet desperation. "Eve's right." Grayson turned back toward us—toward her. "Just because our opponent thinks this is beyond our capabilities to figure out doesn't mean that it is." 

Jameson placed his hands next to mine on the desk. "The other two clues were vague. This one, less so. Even partial riddles can sometimes be solved." 

"I'm back!" Xander burst into the room. "And I have props!" He thrust his hand out. In his palm, there were three chess pieces: a king, a knight, and a bishop. Jameson reached for the chess pieces, but Xander smacked his hand away. 

"The father." Xander brandished the king and set it down on the desk. "The prodigal son." He plunked down the knight. "And the son who stayed." 

"The bishop as the son who kept faith," I commented as Xander placed the final piece on the desk. "Nice touch." I stared at the three pieces. A wasteful youth, wandering the world ungrateful. The memory of that voice stuck to me like oil. A benevolent father, ready to welcome him home. 

Avery picked up the knight. "Prodigal means wastrel. We all know what teenage Toby was like. He slept and drank his way across the country, was responsible for a fire that killed three people, and allowed his family to think he was dead for decades." 

"And through all of that," Jameson mused, picking up the king, "our grandfather wanted nothing more than towel come his prodigal son home. "Toby, the prodigal. Tobias, the father.

"That just leaves the other son," Grayson said, walking over to join us as the desk. Nash circled up, too, leaving only a muted Eve on the outskirts. "The one who toiled faithfully," Grayson continued, "and was given nothing." He managed to say those words like they held no meaning to him, but this part of the story had to hit close to home for him—for all of them. 

"We already talked to Skye," Avery said, picking up the bishop, the faithful son. 

"But Skye isn't Toby's only sibling." I hated to even say it because Zara was the better out of the two sisters. 

"It's not Zara," Jameson said with the kind of intensity I associated with him and only him. "She's Hawthorne enough to pull it off, if she wanted to, but unless we believe that the man on that phone call was an actor—a front—we know who the third player in this story is. "Avenge. Revenge. Vengeance. Avenger. I always win in the end. The three characters in the story of the prodigal son. Each piece of the riddle told us something about our opponent. 

"If Toby is supposed to be the unworthy prodigal," I said, my entire body wound tight, "and Tobias Hawthorne is the father who forgave him, the only role left for Toby's abductor is the other son." Another son. 

Xander raised his hand. "Anyone else wondering if we have a secret uncle out there no one knows about? Because at this point, secret uncle just kind of feels like it belongs on the Hawthorne bingo card." 

"I don't buy it." Nash's voice was steady, sure, unhurried. "The old man wasn't exactly scrupulous, but he was faithful—and damn possessive of anyone or anything he considered his. Besides, we don't have to go lookin' for secret uncles." I registered his meaning at the exact same time that Jameson did. "That wasn't Constantine on the phone," he said. 

"But—"

"Constantine Calligaris wasn't Zara's first husband," I finished. Tobias Hawthorne might have had only one son, but he'd had more than one son-in-law. 

"No one ever talks about the first guy," Xander offered. "Ever." A son, cut from the family, ignored, forgotten. 

"Where's Zara?" Avery asked Oren. 

"She wakes up early in the mornings to tend the roses." 

"I'll go." Grayson wasn't asking permission or volunteering. Eve finally joined the rest of us at the desk. 

She looked up at Grayson, tear tracks on her face. "I'll go with you, Gray." He was going to take her up on the offer. I could tell that just by looking at him, but I didn't object. I didn't let myself say a single word. 

But Jameson surprised me. "No. You go with Grayson, Heiress." I had no idea what to read into that—if he still didn't trust Eve, if he didn't trust Grayson around Eve.

Jameson's Pov

The library was a mess, a jumble of scattered papers and crumpled notes left behind by the whirlwind of the day. Exhaustion hung in the air, but Cal and I lingered in the dimly lit space, surrounded by the faint smell of old books.

"You should get some sleep," I suggested, plopping down on the dusty floor beside her. Cal looked like she might collapse at any second, her determination giving way to pure fatigue.

"I can't, there's not enough time," she replied, running her fingers through her wild, disheveled hair. Her eyes were a mix of stubbornness and exhaustion.

I let out a sigh, reaching for her hand. "You can't think straight like this. A few hours won't hurt."

Cal shot me a tired smile. "You don't sleep."

I shrugged. "I'll rest when we get through this. But you, you need it now."

With a reluctant nod, Cal allowed me to guide her down to the cold library floor. The quiet settled in around us, the library now a makeshift haven for our tired minds.

As we lay side by side, the hush of the library enveloped us. The outside world seemed distant, and for a moment, the urgency of our mission faded away. Cal's breathing slowed, signaling that sleep was catching up with her. "You're stubborn, you know that?" she mumbled, her eyes closing.

I chuckled softly. "You're not much better."

In the quiet, with the soft glow of a forgotten desk lamp casting a gentle light, we found a moment of reprieve. Tomorrow held uncertainties, but for now, in the stillness of the library, Cal and I allowed ourselves the luxury of a brief escape from the relentless demands of our reality. As Cal's breathing steadied into a peaceful rhythm, I carefully rose from the floor. The antique clock continued its steady ticking in the background. 

Her room wasn't far away, I gently lifted Cal into my arms. She stirred for a moment, but as I adjusted my hold, she settled, snug against my chest. I moved to her room and laid her down on her bed. Watching her sleep, the weight of responsibility seemed to lift from her shoulders, at least for the moment. 

With a smile, I brushed a strand of hair from her face, silently grateful for this calm amongst the chaos. But for now, Cal slept peacefully, and as I closed the door behind me, I carried with me the hope that tomorrow would bring new strength and resilience for whatever challenges lay ahead.