The Inheritance Games

When I was a kid, my mom constantly invented games. The Quiet Game. The Who Can Make Their Cookie Last Longer? Game. A perennial favorite, the Marshmallow Game involved eating marshmallows while wearing puffy Goodwill jackets indoors, to avoid turning on the heat. The Flashlight game was what we played when the electricity went out. We never walked anywhere—we raced. The floor was nearly always lava. The primarily purpose of pillows was building forts.

Right on cue, Libby’s on-again, off-again boyfriend—who had a fondness for punching walls and extolling his own virtues for not punching Libby—strolled in. He snagged a cupcake off the counter and let his gaze rake over me. “Hey, jailbait.”

Zara lost her hold on her tone. “You got in his head, didn’t you, Skye? Batted your eyelashes and convinced him to bypass us and leave everything to your—”

“Sons.” Skye’s voice was crisp. “The word you’re looking for is sons.”

“The word she’s looking for is bastards.” Nash Hawthorne had the thickest accent of anyone in the room. “Not like we haven’t heard it before.”

“Think about what this means. You’ll never have to worry about money again. You can buy whatever you want, do whatever you want. Those postcards you kept of your mom’s?” She leaned forward, touching her forehead against mine. “You can go anywhere. Imagine the possibilities.”

“I haven’t a clue how you pulled this off, but I will find out. I see you now. I know what you are and what you’re capable of, and there is nothing I wouldn’t do to protect my family. Whatever game you’re playing here, no matter how long this con—I will find out the truth, and God help you when I do.”

“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.”

“You want the money.” Grayson Hawthorne looked down from on high. “How could you not, growing up the way you did?”

That was just dripping with condescension. “Like you don’t want the money?” I retorted. “Growing up the way you did?”

“I don’t need to tell you that most lottery winners find their existence made miserable as they drown in requests and demands from family and friends. You are blessedly short on both. Libby, however, is another matter.”

“She didn’t want to choose, and neither one of them wanted to let her go. She turned it into a competition. A little game.”

“She turned it into a game.” Grayson shook his head. “And God help us, we played. I want to say that it was because we loved her—that it was because of her, but I don’t even know how much of that was true. There’s nothing more Hawthorne than winning.”

My face had been needed to get this far. Their hands were required to go farther.

“You helped me,” I said. He’d manipulated me. Moved me around, like a lure.