Page 57 of The Final Gambit

Five minutes later, we were in the Hawthorne theater. Not to be confused with the Hawthornemovietheater, this one had a stage, a red velvet curtain, stadium and box seating—the whole shebang.

Xander stood on the stage, holding a microphone. A screen had been set up behind him, and there must have been a projector somewhere because “911!” danced on the screen.

“I need this,” Xander said into the microphone. “You need this. We all need this. Nash, I’ve cued up the Taylor Swift for you. Jameson, get ready to break out those dance moves because this stage is calling your name, and we all know that your hips are utterly incapable of falsehood. And as for Grayson…” Xander paused. “WhereisGray?”

“Grayson Hawthorne skipping out on karaoke?” Libby said. “I’m shocked, I tell you.Shocked.”

“Gray has a voice so deep and smooth that you will shed literal tears as he sings something so old school that you will come to believe he spent the 1950s wearing the most dapper of suits and hanging out with his bestie, Frank Sinatra,” Xander swore. He swung his gaze to his brothers. “But Gray’s not here.”

Jameson glanced at me. “You don’t ignore a nine-one-one text,” he told me. “No matter what.”

“WhereisGrayson?” Nash asked. And that was when I heard it—a sound halfway between a crash and the shattering of wood.

Jameson jogged out to the hallway. There was another crash. “Music room,” he told us.

Xander jumped off the stage. “My duet will have to wait!”

“Who were you going to duet with?” Libby asked.

“Myself!” Xander yelled as he ran for the door, but Nash caught him.

“Hold on there, Xan. Let Jamie go.” Nash looked toward me. “You go, too, kid.”

I wasn’t sure what Nash thought was going on here—or why he seemed so sure that Jameson and I were the ones Grayson needed.

“In the meantime,” Nash told Xander, “give me the mic.”

As Jameson and I made our way down the corridor, the sound of achingly beautiful violin music began drifting into the hall. The music room door was open, and when I stepped through it, I saw Grayson poised in front of open bay windows, wearing a suit without the jacket, his shirt unbuttoned, a violin pressed to his chin. His posture was perfect, each movement smooth.

The floor in front of him was covered with shards of wood.

I couldn’t remember how many ultra-expensive violins Tobias Hawthorne had purchased in pursuit ofcultivatinghis grandson’s musical ability, but it looked like Grayson had destroyed at least one.

The song reached a final note, so high and sweet it was almost unbearable. Then there was silence as Grayson lowered the violin, took a step away from the windows, and then raised the instrument again—over his head.

Jameson caught his brother’s forearm. “Don’t.” For a moment, the two of them grappled, sorrow and fury. “Gray.You’re not hurting anyone but yourself.” That had no effect, so Jameson went for the jugular. “You’re scaring Avery. And you missed Xander’s nine-one-one.”

I wasn’t scared. I could never be scared of Grayson—but I could ache for him.

Grayson slowly lowered the violin. “I apologize,” he told me, his voice almost too calm. “It’s your property I’ve been destroying.”

I didn’t care about myproperty. “You play beautifully,” I told Grayson, pushing back the urge to cry.

“Beauty was expected,” Grayson replied. “Technique without artistry is worthless.” He looked down at the remains of the violin he’d destroyed. “Beauty is a lie.”

“Remind me to mock you for saying that later,” Jameson told him.

“Leave me,” Grayson ordered, turning his back on us.

“If I’d known we were having a party,” Jameson half sang, “I would have ordered food.”

“A party?” I asked.

“A pity party.” Jameson smirked. “I see you dressed for the occasion, Gray.”

“You’re right.” Grayson walked toward the door. “This is self-indulgent. Thoroughly beneath me.”

Jameson reached out to trip him, and then it was on. I understood now why Nash had sent Jameson. Sometimes Grayson Davenport Hawthorne needed a fight—and Jameson was only too happy to oblige.