Page 27 of The Hawthorne Legacy
It took me a second to place the name. Like Kaylie Rooney, Colin Anders Wright had died on Hawthorne Island twenty years earlier. How soon did Colin’s family create a charity in his memory? I wondered. It must have been nearly immediate, for Colin’s Way to have been included in Tobias Hawthorne’s twenty-year-old will. I searched for news articles within a month of the fire with the search term Colin’s Way and found a half dozen articles.
Right after the fire, then. I toggled back to the Colin’s Way website and dug through the media section—through years, then decades, until I hit the first press clipping available—a press conference of some kind.
I hit Play on the video. There was a family on-screen: a woman with two young children, standing behind a man. At first I thought they were husband and wife, but it soon became clear that they were siblings.
“This is a horrific tragedy, one from which our family will never recover. My nephew was an incredible young man. He was intelligent and driven, competitive but kind. There is no telling what good he would have done in this world had the actions of others not robbed him of that opportunity. I know that if Colin were here, he would tell me to let go of the anger. He would tell me to concentrate on what matters. And so, along with his mother, his siblings, and my wife, who could not be here today, I am proud to announce the formation of Colin’s Way, a charity that will channel my nephew’s competitive and giving spirit to bring the joy of athletics, teamwork, and family to underprivileged children in our communities.”
There was something about the man’s voice that stuck with me, something jarring. Something familiar. When the camera zoomed in closer, I noticed his eyes.
Ice blue, bordering on gray. Once he ended his speech, reporters called out for his attention. “Mr. Grayson!”
“Mr. Grayson, over here!”
A ticker bar ran across the bottom of the screen. Feeling dazed and borderline dizzy, I read the name of Colin Anders Wright’s uncle: Sheffield Grayson.
CHAPTER 22
The next morning, Jameson called to me from the other side of my fireplace, and I pulled the candlestick on the mantel to trigger the release.
“Did you find what I found?” he asked me. “Two of the four charities have connections to victims of the fire. I’m still piecing together the rest, but I have a theory.”
“Does your theory involve Toby having been a patient at Camden House and potentially losing his memory after the fire?” I asked.
Jameson leaned toward me. “We’re brilliant.”
I thought about the rest of what I’d discovered. He hadn’t mentioned Sheffield Grayson.
“Heiress?” Jameson leaned back and assessed me. “What is it?”
It was obvious to me that he hadn’t looked up anything about Colin’s Way beyond the charity’s namesake. Obvious that he hadn’t seen the video I’d seen. Without a word, I pulled it up for him on my phone. I handed it over. As Jameson watched, I finally found my voice.
“His eyes,” I said. “And his last name is Grayson. I know that Skye never told you anything about your fathers, but you all have last names as first names. Do you think…”
Jameson handed the phone back. “Only one way to find out.” He came to stand right behind me. “We could go out your door, like normal people, but one of Oren’s men is stationed outside, and I doubt anyone on your security team would sign off on you going to visit my mother.”
Going to visit a woman who’d tried to have me killed was a bad idea. I knew that. But Grayson was nineteen, which meant that he’d been conceived twenty years ago—not long after the fire on Hawthorne Island. What were the chances that was a coincidence? There was no such thing in Hawthorne House. And right now, the only person who could answer our questions was Skye.
“Oren isn’t going to be happy about this,” I told Jameson.
He smiled. “We’ll be back before anyone realizes we’re gone.”
Jameson knew the secret passageways like the back of his hand. He got us to the massive indoor garage unseen. He pulled a motorcycle off a rack on the wall and solved the puzzle box where the keys were kept. The next thing I knew, he was wearing a helmet and holding a second one out to me.
“Do you trust me, Heiress?” Jameson had donned a leather jacket. He looked like trouble. The good kind.
“Not even a little,” I replied, but I took the helmet from his outstretched hand, and when he climbed onto the motorcycle, I climbed on behind him.
CHAPTER 23
Skye Hawthorne was staying at a luxury hotel—a hotel I owned. It was the kind of place that had caviar on the room-service menu and offered in-room spa services. I had no idea how Skye was paying for a room, or if she was paying. The idea that this was her punishment for an attempt on my life was infuriating.
“Easy,” Jameson murmured beside me as he knocked on the door. “We need her to talk.”
Talk first, I thought. Have security remove her from the premises later.
Skye opened the door wearing a crimson silk robe that brushed the tips of her toes and flowed around her as she moved. “Jamie.” She smiled at Jameson. “Shame on you for not visiting your poor mother until now.”
Jameson gave me the briefest of warning looks, a clear Let me handle this.
