Lies Twist The Way We Think

Chapter 14 - Letters

"Care to explain why the fuck you're carrying a knife with you while you sleep?" Grayson walks over to the balcony, like he knows everything about my room— which he probably does.

I scoff and follow him irritatedly, ignoring that he's dressed in sweatpants like it doesn't affect me at all. "I don't have to explain myself to you."

"Well, let me explain myself then: if you don't tell me, you won't know what's in my letter."

I pause. We're standing outside now and  I shiver when the cool air hits my naked arms. He waits for me to say something and even though it's dark, I can imagine the smug look on his face. You think you're so much smarter than me. You'll regret that.

"Not everyone gets to live an untroubled life in a mansion," I grit. "I protect my family. That's all."

Grayson stays quiet, and I start to regret ever explaining myself to him. Fuck his letter and fuck the Hawthornes.

But he surprises me when he says, "I respect that." Something shifts between us, something untraceable, unrecognisable. But we both know it. Only we can.

"I don't need your respect. And I gave you my answer. You promised me something in return."

His hair falls in his face when he looks down to the letter in his hand. As he opens it, I realise that I'm merely wearing my pyjamas and freezing. He notices too.

"Would you like my jacket?"

"It's alright," I murmur, "I'll get mine." The Gentleman of Hawthorne House, hm? When I return, he gives me the letter.

"Read it."

The moonlight is barely enough for me to recognise anything, but I do make out the words.

Grayson,
Forgive an old man his plays. The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool. Trust only few; there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. Words are easy, like the wind; faithful friends are hard to find. Nothing is certain but death.
Not the devil is your enemy. Do good.
— Tobias Tattersall Hawthorne

"Shakespeare," I murmur, my eyes flickering over the words. He nods and lets me read it another few times before I hand it back. "What do you think?"

"I think," he says slowly, "that he wants to play one last game with us." His voice echoes in my head, the night concealing any other noises there might be.

The devil could be me. Maybe Grayson has finally figured that I have not been trying to masterfully steal his inheritance.

I groan quietly. "I hate Shakespeare."

He laughs and looks at me from the side, his gaze calculating. "What about riddles?"

I frown, trying to overcome my sleepiness, but I fail. "I like riddles. But not today. Not like this." There's a lot unsaid in my words, but he catches the clue.

"Good night, Camille." I note that he's stopped calling me Miss Diante. I would call this progress.

"Good night, Grayson." Just because he's accepted that I'm not an evil villain doesn't mean I forgive him. But I can be civilised.

By the next morning, I've memorised Grayson's letter. It sounds like it's been written by someone who hasn't slept in days— manic, rattling off one platitude after another. But the longer the words marinate in the back of my brain, the more I begin to consider the possibility that Grayson might be right.

There's something there, in the letters. In Grayson's. In mine. Maybe in Avery's, too. An answer—or at least a riddle.

Rolling out of my bed, I go to unplug my phones, plural, from their chargers. I have no idea how to explain the last twenty-four hours to Aisha, but I need to talk to someone.