Lies Twist The Way We Think

Chapter 13 - Where is a hitman when you need one

"Camille?"

The second I hear my name, I step back from the trophies. Hastily, I close the compartment I released on the desk.

"In here," I call back.

To my surprise, Libby appears in the doorway. I stop smiling. I have no idea how to react to her.

"This is unreal," she says. "This entire place is unreal."

I nod, trying to make up for the silence that stretches between us. I try to focus on the marvel that is Hawthorne House and not on her black eye, but I fail. If possible, the bruising looks worse now. She looks back at me, eyebrows raised, waiting for me to comment on it. For some reason, she's always looking for a reason to argue with me, to fight me. She thinks she has to defend herself against me. I don't know why. Maybe she does it because she wants to prove that I'm a bad person.

She doesn't have to do that, though. I already know I am.

Libby wraps her arms around her torso. "I'm fine," she says finally. "It doesn't even hurt that much."

"Please tell me you're done with him." The words escape me before I can stop them. Libby needs support right now—not judgment. No matter what she feels towards me, I love her. I love her.

"I'm here, aren't I?" Libby says. "I chose Avery, and you." The second part comes hesitantly, and I shift in my seat. Libby lets her hair fall into her face and turns toward the balcony. She stays silent for a full minute before she speaks again.

"My mom used to hit me. Only when she was really stressed, you know? She was a single mom, and things were hard. I could understand that. I tried to make everything easier."

I can picture her as a kid, getting hit and trying to make it up to the person who hit her. Softly, I say, "It wasn't your fault."

"Drake loved me, Camille. I know he did, and I tried so hard to understand..." She is hugging herself harder now. The black polish on her nails looks fresh. Perfect. "But you were right." She adds, as if she loathes the thought of it, "you always are."

My heart breaks. "I didn't want to be." I never wanted for this to happen.

She turns to look at me, and there are so many things unsaid between us. I get up and walk towards her. "I know you don't like me, but I will love you anyway. And I'm always here for you."

Memories of our childhood, playing in Avery's room, sitting in the kitchen, throwing pillows around, trying on each other's clothes, braiding each others hair, flash through my mind.

Something between us breaks and she cries as she hugs me. "I don't hate you," she says between sobs and I pull her closer, holding her tightly. "I never hated you."

"Okay," I murmur into her hair. "That's okay. Don't cry, Libby. It's okay."

Ask Alisa about that hitman again, the voice in my head tells me.

We stay like that for what feels like an eternity, then she pulls away and laughs a little. "I ruined your shirt."

I glance at my shoulder and see mascara stains. "Doesn't matter." Then, looking at the balcony, I say, "Do you want to get some fresh air?"

The two of us step out into the night air. Down below, there is a swimming pool. It must be heated, because someone is swimming laps.

Grayson. My body recognises him before my mind does. His arms beat against the water in a brutally efficient butterfly stroke. I watch him lazily, fascinated.

"I have to tell you something," Libby says beside me.

That lets me tear my eyes away from the pool—and the swimmer. "About Drake?" I ask carefully.

"No. I heard something." Libby swallows. "When Oren introduced me to my security detail, I overheard Zara's husband talking. They're running a test—a DNA test. On you."

I have no idea where Zara and her husband have gotten a sample of my DNA, but I'm not entirely surprised. I will tell Oren to inform me more about that, though. "Not Avery?"

It's not a stupid idea. The simplest explanation for including a total stranger in your will is that she's not a total stranger. The simplest explanation is that I am a Hawthorne. But following that logic, Avery would have to be, too. And I know that Mom wasn't a Hawthorne.

I have a secret...and you cannot tell Avery. Do you promise me that, my precious girl?

"Not on Avery," Libby says, "but it's not entirely unlikely, is it? We don't know who your dad is. And Avery didn't get everything, you did. So if you don't— I mean, we're not—"

„Don't you dare say we're not sisters," I tell her.

"Would you still want me here?" Libby asks me, her fingers rubbing at her choker. "Even if—"

"I want you here," I promise. "No matter what."

C. R. D. — M. L. T

It's late in the night and I'm lying in my bed when I hear a creak at my window.

Now, what I did next might surprise or even shock you. I grew up in the care of my mother's home; but she was nearly always gone, working multiple jobs to keep us fed, and I had a lot of time on my own, and wrong friends who knew the wrong people. They taught me quickly to have a knife on me wherever I go. Now I still do, even though it's more a habit than anything else.

I get up slowly, careful not to make any noise. Someone is climbing inside my room.

It is deadly quiet. I control my breathing, grip my knife a little tighter, hoping the shadows conceal me.

I can't tell who it is. The thought frightens me, angers me— and in an instant, I grab the person by their shirt, pin them against a wall and press my knife against their throat.

"Hey! Fucking hell, Camille, it's me. It's me!" The guy is out of breath, a familiar voice.

"Grayson?" I ask in disbelief, lowering the knife. His face is only inches away from mine. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"Shht, stop yelling." He grabs my shoulders and gently pushes me away, but I'm already moving. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

"You didn't mean to frighten me? I—"

"Camille, for God's sake, calm down." His eyes slightly widen when he realises that it was the wrong thing to say. The moon reflects in his eyes and his perfectly aristocratic face carries a look of concern.

"I will not calm down, you inconsiderate hypocrite! What do you want?"

"I'll explain everything, just— inconsiderate hypocrite? Why?" He seems seriously offended. If this wasn't the most confusing situation to happen right now, I would probably be laughing.

I take a deep breath and count to three. "Okay. Okay, what's the matter that you have to climb into my room in the middle of the night? Especially after you threatened the hell out of me the last time we met?" I start out calm, but my words turn into a whispered yelling soon.

I imagine he'll say something like I'm sorry for what I said, or I was wrong. Instead, he says, "Come with me."

I shouldn't be surprised. Grayson Hawthorne would never apologise.