Page 21 of The Hawthorne Legacy
“She died right before Grayson was born,” Jameson said. “Everyone says the grief over Toby killed her.”
Had the old man told his wife that their son was still alive? Had he known—or even suspected—the truth back when this will was written?
I returned my attention to the document and read it again from the top. “There are only two major differences between this will and the last one,” I said when I was done.
“You aren’t in this one.” Xander ticked off the first. “Which, barring time travel, makes sense, given that you weren’t born until three years after it was written.”
“And the charities.” Jameson was in laser-focus mode. He didn’t so much as spare a glance for his brother—or for me. “If there’s a clue in here, it’s in that list.”
Xander grinned. “And you know what that means, Jamie.”
Jameson made a face that suggested that he did, in fact, know what that meant.
“What?” I asked.
Jameson sighed theatrically. “Don’t mind me. This is what I look like when I’m preparing to be painfully bored and predictably annoyed. If we want the rundown on the charities on this list, there’s an efficient way of getting it. Prepare yourself for a lecture, Heiress.”
That was the exact moment when I realized what he was talking about—and who had the information we needed. The member of the Hawthorne family who knew its charitable works intimately. Someone I’d already told about Toby. “Grayson.”
CHAPTER 17
The Hawthorne Foundation looked exactly as it had the last time I’d been there. The walls were still a light silver-gray—the color of Grayson’s eyes. Massive black-and-white photographs still hung all around the room. Grayson’s handiwork.
This place was Grayson—but this time Jameson and Xander were there as a buffer between us.
“If he says the phrase effective altruism,” Xander warned me with mock solemnity, “run.”
I snorted back laughter. A door opened and shut nearby, and Grayson strode into the room. His gaze settled on me for a second or two before he looked past me to his brothers.
“To what do I owe the honor, Jamie? Xan?”
Xander opened his mouth, but Jameson beat him to speaking. “I invoke the ancient rite of On Spake.”
Xander looked startled, then delighted.
“The what?” I said.
Grayson narrowed his eyes at his brother, then answered my question. “Anagram it.”
It took me less than three seconds. “No speak.”
“Exactly,” Jameson said. “Once I begin telling him what I have to say, my dearest, darling older brother here can’t say a single word until I finish.”
“At which point, if I choose, I can invoke the sacred rite of Taeb Nwod.” Grayson dusted an imaginary speck off the cuff of his suit. “I believe those rules expired when I was ten.”
“I recall no such expiration!” Xander volunteered.
I did a little mental rearranging of the words Grayson had spoken and then shook my head. “Beatdown? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“It’s a friendly beatdown,” Xander assured me. “A brotherly beatdown.” He paused. “More or less.”
“Well?” Jameson gave Grayson a look.
In reply, Grayson took off his suit jacket and laid it on a nearby desk, presumably preparing for part two of this little ritual. “Whatever you have to tell me, Jamie, I’m all ears.”
“We went to see the will the old man wrote right after Toby ‘died.’” Jameson took his time with what he had to say—because he could. “Yes, I know you think asking to see the will was a bad idea. No, I don’t have any particular objection to bad ideas. Long story short, we found a list of charities. We need you to look through them and see what, if anything, you notice.”
Grayson arched an eyebrow.
