CHAPTER 50 LYRA

LYRA

S unrise on the Pacific was a sight to behold. With Grayson beside her, Lyra stood at the front of the yacht, feeling like the sky had been split open. She looked down at the diamond-studded mask in her hands—at the words engraved in tiny letters on the back.

Time Signatures

Another puzzle, solved. Lyra wondered how many of the other players, besides her and Grayson, had looked at the back of their masks, and then she wondered what, if anything, else their competitors had found on the yacht.

We were told there were hints to puzzles, plural.

Lyra’s mind went first to Brady and whatever puzzle he was working, and then to Savannah and Rohan.

Rohan. The things he’d said ate at Lyra. She knew that he’d meant for them to, that Rohan had meant for the assertion that Jameson Hawthorne had placed a target on her back to cause problems—for her, for Grayson, for the way they’d been playing the Grandest Game. Together.

But that didn’t mean that it wasn’t true.

“What is it?” Grayson asked beside her.

Lyra ran a finger over the edge of her mask. It had been easier to hide her emotions from him when she was wearing it. But at this point, wasn’t she done hiding? She’d bet on him, on this thing between them, the moment she’d let go, the moment she’d confided in him about Eve.

You either trusted someone or you didn’t.

“Rohan told me that Jameson asked him to find a reason the game makers could use to kick me out of the game.” Lyra looked from the broken-open sky to Grayson. “Would Jameson do that? Did he?”

“In all likelihood?” Grayson’s eyes darkened slightly. “Yes.” The muscles in his jaw tightened, and the effect was visible all through his face, his cheekbones becoming that much sharper, his brow just a shade more pronounced. “But I assure you, that won’t be an issue moving forward.”

“Because you won’t let it be an issue?” Lyra guessed based on the look on his face.

“Because Jameson now knows that the person who sent you your ticket is Eve.” Grayson turned his head toward hers. “And Eve is not a threat.”

Lyra read between the lines there. “Who did your brother think sent me the ticket before?”

“There is a reason that my grandfather kept a List and a reason that we spell the word List with a capital L . My family has a not insignificant number of enemies. It might not have mattered to Jameson which of them sent you here—only that someone had, and their motives were questionable at best.”

“But Eve is not a threat?” Lyra was pretty sure Eve would have begged to differ about that.

“Eve is a known quantity,” Grayson said. “And I assure you, your spot in this game is secure. You’ve more than proved yourself, and I would not allow—”

Grayson’s words were cut off by a rhythmic roar. Lyra turned around to see a helicopter on the front of the yacht powering up, its blades spinning faster and faster.

“Nash,” Grayson informed her, raising the volume of his speech enough to be heard. “My brother has somewhere to be this morning.”

“Everything okay?” Lyra yelled back as the helicopter lifted off.

“Nash and his wife are expecting twins.” Grayson lowered his volume as the helicopter grew smaller in the sky. “Girls.”

Lyra gave herself exactly one moment to entertain the idea of Grayson as an uncle to two little girls. “Are they okay? Nash’s wife and the babies?”

“They’re fine, but between you and me, Nash has always been a bit of a mother hen.”

“Are we talking about the same Nash Hawthorne?” Lyra asked. “Cowboy hat. Yea high.”

Grayson’s lips curved up on the ends. “Trust me.”

I do. Lyra should have found that unsettling, but as she fixed her gaze on the ocean sunrise once more, Grayson did the same beside her, and they fell into an in easy silence, far easier than it should have been—until it was broken by the familiar thump of helicopter blades.

Back so soon? Lyra looked up. In the sky, a different helicopter hooked toward the yacht’s helipad, coming in for a landing.

“How many helicopters does your family have ?” she yelled.

Before Grayson could answer, Xander’s voice sounded from the yacht’s many speakers. “Players! Your chariot has arrived. Make your way to the bow of the ship. And if I may offer a few parting words…”

Xander paused for dramatic effect, and Lyra thought about that fact that there wouldn’t be another interlude like this one. No more events. No more ballgowns. No more masks. Just clue to clue to clue—until the end.

“Live long. Prosper. Hydrate.” As Xander’s voice echoed over the bow, the helicopter touched down. “Make good choices. We’ll see you at the finish line. Xander Hawthorne, out.”

One by one, the other players arrived on the front of the yacht.

The helicopter’s blades stopped spinning, and the pilot’s door opened.

A man stepped out. He was wearing tattered jeans.

Facial hair covered the bottom half of his face, a deeper brown than his hair, which had the faintest red tint to it, closer to mahogany than auburn.

She felt Grayson register the man’s presence.

“Who’s that?” Lyra asked, her voice low.

“That,” Grayson told her, “is Toby Hawthorne.”

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