Lies Twist The Way We Think

Chapter 10 - Nash Hawthorne

"I'm sorry." Libby has apologized at least a dozen times.

She's told Drake everything about the will, the conditions on our inheritance, where we are staying. Everything. And the worst thing is, I know her well enough to know why. He'd probably be angry that she'd taken off. She'd try to pacify him. And the moment she told him about the money, he would demand to tag along. He would start making plans to spend the Hawthorne money. And Libby, God bless her, would tell him that it wasn't theirs to spend, that it wasn't his.

He hit her. She left him. He went to the press. And now they are here. Paparazzi. A horde descends on us as Oren leads me and Avery out a side door.

"There they are!" a voice yells.

"Camille!"

"Avery, Camille, over here!"

"Camille, how does it feel to be the richest teenager in America?"

"How does it feel to be the world's youngest billionaire?"

"How did you know Tobias Hawthorne?"

"Is it true that you're Tobias Hawthorne's illegitimate daughters?"

I'm shuffled into an SUV. The door close, dulling the roar of the reporters' questions. Exactly halfway through our drive, I get a text— not from Aisha. From an unknown number. I open it and see a screenshot of a news headline. "Camille Diante and Avery Grambs: Who Are the Hawthorne Heiresses?"

A short message accompanies the picture.

Hey, Trouble. You're officially famous.

There are more paparazzi outside the gates of Hawthorne House, but once we pull past them, the rest of the world fades away.

There is no welcome party. No Nash. No Grayson. No Hawthornes of any kind. I reach for the massive front door— locked. Alisa disappears around the back of the house. When she finally reappears, there is a pained expression on her face. She hands me a large envelope.

"Legally," she says, "The Hawthorne family is required to provide you with keys. Practically speaking..." She narrows her eyes. "The Hawthorne family is a pain in the ass."

"That a legal term?" Oren asks dryly.

I rip open the envelope and find that the Hawthorne family has indeed provided us with keys— somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred of them.

"Any idea which one of these goes to the front door?" I ask.

They aren't normal keys. They are oversized and ornately made. They all look like antiques, and each key has distinct different designs, different metals, different lengths and sizes.

"You'll figure it out," someone says.

My gaze jerks upward, and I find myself staring at an intercom.

"Cut the games, Jameson," Alisa orders. "This isn't nearly as cute as you all think it is."

No reply.

"Jameson?" Alisa tried again.

Silence, and then: "I have faith in you, M.G."

The intercom cut off, and Alisa blows out a long, frustrated breath. "God save me from Hawthornes."

"M.G.?" Libby asks, bewildered.

"Mystery Girl," Avery clarifies. I look at her, and I realise there must be something I've missed. When did they ever meet? "From what I've gathered, that's Jameson Hawthorne's idea of a nickname."

"Well?" Alisa said abruptly. "Do you want me to make a phone call?"

"No." I turn my attention from the keys to the door. The design is simple, geometric—not a match for anything on any of the keys I'd looked at so far. That would be too easy, I think. Too simple. A second later, a parallel thought follows. Not simple enough.
I've learned this much playing chess: The more complicated a person's strategy seemed, the less likely an opponent is going to look for simple answers. If you can keep someone looking at your knight, you can take them with a pawn. Look past the details. Past the complications. I shift my focus from the handles of the keys to the part that actually goes into the lock. Though the keys differ in size overall, the lock end is sized similarly from key to key.