Then

Finding the Cartago house—one of many, many vacation homes owned by Tobias Hawthorne and left to my sister—is not the hard part. Getting to it is.

“There were few things the old man loved more than a house built into a cliff.” Nash doesn’t seem too fussed about that. “There’s a path somewhere.” His gaze rolls over the thick, lush vegetation that seems to cover every possible route up. “What do you think, Lib? Do we look for the hidden path or borrow a machete and make our own?”

I give him a look. “Who’s going to loan you a machete?”

Nash executes one of those shrugs of his, as if to say Who wouldn’t loan me a machete? And honestly? He’s probably right. Nash Hawthorne has a way with people.

I look up at the wild, green, practically vertical stretch of land separating us from the house at the top of the cliff. “I don’t want to cut anything down if we don’t have to.”

It’s beautiful here. It’s real.

Nash takes in the view. “The hidden path it is,” he says.

“Let’s try…” I take a deep breath, then point. “This way!”

“Lead on, darlin’. I trust your instincts.”

“Oh, my instincts should definitely not be trusted,” I say. “Pretty much ever.”

Nash looks at me for a moment, then shifts his gaze back to the tangle of tropical plants standing between us and our destination. “It’s funny,” he says.

“What is?”

“The old man had a way of planning for everything.” Nash starts walking in the direction I indicated. “But I’m bettin’ he didn’t plan on you.”

I make a face. “Why would he?” In the world of billionaire Tobias Hawthorne, what was I?

“I’m not sayin’ he didn’t realize you would come with Avery.” Nash keeps right on walking. “Of course he did.”

“Then what are you saying?” I probably shouldn’t even be asking, but I want to know. I really, really want to know.

“I’m saying”—Nash doesn’t drop the g this time—“that I trust your instincts, and I’m almost positive the old man never planned on that. He didn’t realize that you would be… you.”

Me. At the exact same time, Nash and I both see a break in the brush. I push past low-hanging limbs on green, green trees. Nash is right on my heels, and like magic, the path—practically a tunnel through the vegetation—reveals itself, winding up, up, up.

“How’s your endurance?” Nash asks.

“Relentlessly optimistic and also stubborn.” I grin. “How’s yours?”

Brown eyes linger on mine. “I was built for the long haul.”

For the longest time, the two of us just climb. I’ve never been this comfortable with silence before. But eventually, my brain starts to play a little game called What If He Takes Off His Shirt?

I break the silence. “Have you ever been here?”

“To this house or Costa Rica?” Nash looks over at me, but neither one of us stops climbing.

“Either.” I’m breathing hard, but it feels good. “Both.”

“Yes on the country, no on the house. I don’t exactly like to travel in style.” Before I can ask why, he elaborates. “I like to sweat. I like going to sleep at night with aching muscles, my body spent, knowing that I did something real. I like having to find my own way, and I like meeting folks where they are—on their terms, not mine.”

This man. I don’t let myself think anything other than that. “Meeting folks,” I echo. “And borrowing their machetes.”

Nash grins—and both of us keep hiking.

“Your grandfather.” Again, I’m the one who breaks the silence. “You always refer to him as the old man.”

This is almost certainly none of my business, but it’s something I’ve been wondering about for a while.

Nash doesn’t seem to take umbrage at the question. “Makes him sound mortal, I suppose.”

“Mortal,” I repeat. “As opposed to… Zeus?”

In front of us, a branch blocks the path. Nash lifts it for me to duck under. “He liked to think so, but if you ask me, he was closer to Daedalus, always making labyrinths, hiding monsters, pushing all of us to fly too close to the sun.”

He lifts another branch, and we come to a clearing—just enough of one to see the wildflowers and vines growing into the very walls of a small but stunning house, one that looks like it’s always been here, like it wasn’t built so much as called forth from the earth.

“And there she is,” Nash says. He nods to the doorframe. “See the upper-left corner? It looks like it’s coming apart, but…” He heads that way and stretches one hand overhead, and the next thing I know, he has a key.

The head of the key is ornate, its design complicated and in no way a match for the house. It’s a very Hawthorne kind of key.

“Could be a decoy,” Nash tells me. Instead of trying it on the house, he holds it out to me. “You feelin’ lucky, Lib?”

I take the key from him. “I always feel lucky. Reality just doesn’t always get the memo.” But this time is different. When I try the key, the door opens.

We step straight into a living area. Beyond it, I can see a small kitchen and a twisting metal staircase going up to the second floor. “What now?” I say. “What are we looking for?”

This house is part of a trail laid by the dead billionaire—a puzzle, a game. I take another step forward—or at least, I try to, but suddenly, Nash’s hand is on my arm.

Suddenly, his body is right in front of mine.

“There’s food cooking on the stove.” Nash’s voice is low. There’s not a single hint of tension in his muscles, but that doesn’t mean there’s no danger here.

Overhead, a floorboard creaks. Nash shifts, his movement liquid, his body a shield for mine. I peek around him to see someone descending the stairs. At first, all I can make out is shoes. Men’s shoes.

I think about why we’re here—our Hawthorne hunt. “Do you think it’s him?” I whisper. Toby Hawthorne.

“Could be,” Nash says under his breath. “Either that, or we’re in a labyrinth, and that’s the Minotaur.” I don’t have time to read much into that before he raises his voice. “We’re not intruders,” he calls out. “We’re Hawthornes.”

“I’m not,” I whisper behind him, keeping my voice too low for anyone but Nash to hear.

“You’re one of ours,” he murmurs back, his eyes staying locked on the stairs. “Close enough.”

One of ours. The words linger as the possible-Minotaur—who is definitely not Toby Hawthorne—steps into view. There’s something familiar about the man, but I can’t put my finger on what.

It might be the way he moves.

“Hi,” I say brightly, taking the bull by the horns—no Minotaur pun intended. “I’m Libby, and this is—”

The man across from us gives a little nod. “Nash.”

I look from the man to Nash. “You two know each other?”

“He wasn’t saying my name.” Nash never takes his eyes off the man. “He was introducing himself.”

And suddenly, I realize: This man’s last name is Nash. He doesn’t seem overly fussed with our sudden appearance here, doesn’t so much as bat an eye.

Like father, like son.