CHAPTER 63

I knew Oren had to have heard every word of my fight with Libby, but I was also fairly certain he wouldn’t comment on it.

“I’m still looking for the Davenport,” I said tersely. If I’d needed the distraction before, it was downright mandatory now. Without Libby to explore with me, I couldn’t bring myself to just keep wandering from room to room. We already checked the old man’s office. Where else would someone keep a Davenport desk?

I concentrated on that question, not my fight with Libby. Not what I’d said—and what she hadn’t.

“I have it on good authority,” I told Oren after a moment, “that Hawthorne House has multiple libraries.” I let out a long, slow breath. “Got any idea where they are?”

Two hours and four libraries later, I was standing in the middle of number five. It was on the second floor. The ceiling was slanted. The walls were lined with built-in shelves, each shelf exactly tall enough for a row of paperback books. The books on the shelves were well-worn, and they covered every inch of the walls, except for a large stained-glass window on the east side. Light shone through, painting colors on the wood floor.

No Davenport. This was starting to feel useless. This trail hadn’t been laid for me. Tobias Hawthorne’s puzzle hadn’t been designed with me in mind.

I need Jameson.

I cut that thought off at the knees, exited the library, and retreated downstairs. I’d counted at least five different staircases in this house. This one spiraled, and as I walked down it, the sound of piano music beckoned from a distance. I followed it, and Oren followed me. I came to the entryway of a large, open room. The far wall was filled with arches. Beneath each arch was a massive window.

Every window was open.

There were paintings on the walls, and positioned between them was the biggest grand piano I’d ever seen. Nan sat on the piano’s bench, her eyes closed. I thought the old woman was playing, until I walked closer and realized that the piano was playing itself.

My shoes made a sound against the floor, and her eyes flew open.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I—”

“Hush,” Nan commanded. Her eyes closed again. The playing continued, building to a crashing crescendo, and then—silence. “Did you know that you can listen to concerts on this thing?” Nan opened her eyes and reached for her cane. With no small amount of effort, she stood. “Somewhere in the world, a master plays, and with the push of a button, the keys move here.”

Her eyes lingered on the piano, an almost wistful expression on her face.

“Do you play?” I asked.

Nan harrumphed. “I did when I was young. Got a bit too much attention for it, and my husband broke my fingers, put an end to that.”

The way she said it—no muss, no fuss—was almost as jarring as the words. “That’s horrible,” I said fiercely.

Nan looked at the piano, then at her gnarled, bird-boned hand. She lifted her chin and stared out the massive windows. “He met with a tragic accident not long after that.”

It sounded an awful lot like Nan had arranged for that “accident.” She killed her husband?

“Nan,” a voice scolded from the doorway. “You’re scaring the kid.”

Nan sniffed. “She scares that easy, she won’t last here.” With that, Nan made her way from the room.

The oldest Hawthorne brother turned his attention to me. “You tell your sister you’re playing delinquent today?”

The mention of Libby had me flashing back to our argument. She’s talking to Dad. She didn’t want a restraining order against Drake. She won’t block him. I wondered how much of that Nash already knew.

“Libby knows where I am,” I told him stiffly.

He gave me a look. “This ain’t easy for her, kid. You’re at the eye of the storm, where things are calm. She’s taking the brunt of it, from all sides.”

I wouldn’t call getting shot at “calm.”

“What are your intentions toward my sister?” I asked Nash.

He clearly found my line of questioning amusing. “What are your intentions toward Jameson?”

Was there no one in this house who didn’t know about that kiss?

“You were right about your grandfather’s game,” I told Nash. He’d tried to warn me. He’d told me exactly why Jameson had been keeping me close.

“Usually am.” Nash hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. “The closer to the end you come, the worse it’ll get.”

The logical thing to do was stop playing. Step back. But I wanted answers, and some part of me—the part that had grown up with a mom who’d turned everything into a challenge, the part who’d played my first game of chess when I was six years old—wanted to win.

“Any chance you know where your grandfather might have stashed a Davenport desk?” I asked Nash.

He snorted. “You don’t learn easy, do you, kid?”

I shrugged.

Nash considered my question, then cocked his head to the side. “You check the libraries?”

“The circular library, the onyx one, the one with the stained-glass window, the one with the globes, the maze…” I glanced over at my bodyguard. “That’s it?”

Oren nodded.

Nash cocked his head to the side. “Not quite.”