Chapter 4

I constructed my base in the passageway to the vault. Was that cheating, considering that none of the other players had access to that highly secure passageway? Of course not. They were Hawthornes. They’d figure something out.

The booby-trapping and marking of my base took a bit longer. I didn’t have Xander’s mechanical genius, but the tinsel bombs weren’t that hard to figure out, and they were numerous. All it would take was one. As for marking the base with my name, I went with a classic: lemon juice. It was one of the simplest, cleanest forms of invisible ink. And since heat is needed to reveal the message… I smiled wickedly and planned for that contingency.

And then I covered my tracks.

The fact that the vault was hidden behind the elevator shaft made it easy enough for me to mask where I was coming from. Still, as I stepped out of the elevator on the top floor of Hawthorne House, well removed from my actual base, I couldn’t help glancing back over my shoulder.

Espionage, Xander had said. Risk. Defensive maneuvers. Competition.

This was Secret Santa.

I spent the next six days trying to locate the other bases, running surveillance on my own base, and reading meaning into every detail of the way that Nash, Grayson, Jameson, and Xander interacted with one another. If I couldn’t figure out who had drawn my name, the next best thing was figuring out any of the other players’ targets. The fewer question marks there were in this equation, the fewer Hawthornes I would have to keep track of.

All of that was easier said than done. By December seventh, I had located only two bases: Libby’s was in the walk-in freezer, and Xander’s was inside one of the hidden staircases that descended into the tunnels. He’d somehow hollowed out the staircase, which would have made for a brilliant hiding spot were it not for the fact that Xander just couldn’t help humming to himself when he was in engineering mode.

Based on the amount of humming I’d heard when I’d snuck out of bed at two in the morning to execute a grid search of the mansion, I could only conclude that Xander’s base was highly booby-trapped.

Luckily, that wasn’t my problem. Finding Nash’s base was. Tailing him was next to impossible. Nash Hawthorne didn’t miss a damn thing. The only distraction that he was even the least bit susceptible to was my sister, and Libby was currently spending all of her time hiding from Grayson, lest he take her out again. She’d already been shot twice—three days out of the game each time.

Grayson Hawthorne was not the type to leave anything to chance.

Since I couldn’t count on Nash to lead me to his base, I had to resort to other tactics.

Namely: Nan. “I call,” I said. I had a standing weekly poker game with the Hawthorne brothers’ great-grandmother.

The old woman scowled at me. “Did I tell you that you could call?”

Somehow, I managed to keep a perfectly straight face. “No, ma’am.”

Nan harrumphed. “Impertinent child.” Her lips tilted very slightly upward on the ends. “I call.”

I met Nan’s eyes just long enough for her to realize I had a winning hand, and then I placed my cards on the poker table face down. “I fold.”

Nan narrowed her eyes. “You want something.”

I knew better than to beat around the bush. “I drew Nash in Secret Santa. I need to find his base. And I brought caramels.” I reached out to lay four candies on the table between us.

Nan accepted my offering. She took her time eating the first caramel, then jabbed a finger in my direction. “You, girl.” That was pretty much a term of endearment coming from Nan. “Hand me my cane.”

I gave her a look. “Are you going to poke me with it?”

Nan offered no assurances. I handed her the cane, and she poked me with it. “Tell me, girl,” she practically grunted. “Where does my grandson park that godforsaken death contraption of his?”

“His motorcycle?” I said dryly, and then I realized… I didn’t know.

I spent three hours exploring the outside of Hawthorne House before I found a completely camouflaged garage—not the enormous, showroom-sized one that housed some of the most expensive automobiles in the world but a smaller, one-car garage that I hadn’t even known existed. After spotting it on the mansion’s exterior, I was able to find a hidden door to it off the massive laundry room.

I knew the second I stepped inside that this place was Nash’s. I spotted multiple old guitars, a pair of beat-up motorcycle helmets, some truly muddy boots, and his bike, just as worn as the helmets. Beyond that, there was nothing to indicate that this might be his base—until I looked up.

And here I thought Xander was the mad scientist in the family. Nash had created what looked like a spiderweb of garland on the ceiling, holding a large platform aloft.

When Xander had said the garland was reinforced garland, he hadn’t been kidding. That stuff was strong.

On the bottom of the platform, Nash had written his name. No code. No invisible ink.

I looked for a ladder and found none. Nash’s base was out of reach—for now. Not daring to stay any longer, I turned to leave and came face-to-face with the business end of a squirt gun.

Nash.

He was the one who’d trained me to shoot, and I knew: He doesn’t miss. But he hadn’t taken the shot yet.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Nash drawled.

I considered my options. “I seem to recall that there’s a penalty for shooting someone if it turns out you aren’t their target,” I said.

“Sure is,” Nash replied, staring me down.

As luck would have it, the Hawthorne pup chose that moment to pad into the garage. Fortunately for me, Tiramisu was almost as fond of me as she was of the boys. I wiggled my fingers by my side, and she bounded toward me. I picked her up, a little puppy shield.

“If you’re entertaining ideas about Puppy Hot Potato,” Nash warned, “I would recommend you reconsider.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said from behind the puppy.

Nash was silent for a moment, and then he lowered his weapon by about an inch. “Whose name did you draw?” he asked.

I knew a test when I saw one. Whatever the penalty was for a wrong guess, Nash Hawthorne wanted to be sure, which meant that I needed a passable bluff. I couldn’t say Grayson because everyone knew that Libby had Grayson. I had no idea who Nash had drawn or what he knew about the other players and their targets. But I couldn’t afford to hesitate.

“Xander,” I said.

Nash studied me. Tiramisu craned her neck backward and managed to lick my face. And then, out of nowhere, a song began to blare from the speakers.

I frowned. “‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer’?”

Nash holstered his squirt gun in the band of his jeans. “That’s the song that’s played every time a player is taken out of the game for good.”