The Glass Ballerina Who Danced On Knives

It was Jameson Hawthorne with the candlestick in the bedroom

"I'm here, aren't I?" Libby said. "I chose you." I wanted her to choose herself, and I said as much. Libby let her hair fall into her face and turned toward the balcony.

She was silent for a full minute before she spoke 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 could picture her as a kid, getting hit and trying to make it up to the person who hit her.

"Libby..."

"Drake loved me, Avery. I know he did, and I tried so hard to understand..." She was hugging herself harder now. The black polish on her nails looked fresh.Perfect. "But you were right." My heart broke a little.

"I didn't want to be." Libby stood there for a few more seconds, then walked over to the balcony and tested the door. I followed, and the two of us stepped out into the night air.

Down below, there was a swimming pool. It must have been heated, because someone was swimming laps. Grayson. My body recognized him before my mind did. His arms beat against the water in a brutally efficient butterfly stroke. And his back muscles...

"I have to tell you something," Libby said beside me.That let me tear my eyes away from the pool—and the swimmer.

"About Drake?" I asked.

"No. I heard something." Libby swallowed. "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 had no idea where Zara and her husband had gotten a sample of my DNA, but I wasn't entirely surprised. I'd thought it myself: The simplest explanation for including a total stranger in your will was that she wasn't a total stranger. The simplest explanation was that I was a Hawthorne. I had no business watching Grayson at all.

"If Tobias Hawthorne was your father," Libby managed, "then our dad—my dad—isn't. And if we don't share a dad, and we barely even saw each other growing up—"

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

"Would you still want me here?" Libby asked me, her fingers rubbing at her choker. "If we're not—"

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

I wasn't sure how long I'd been lying on what I assumed were Egyptian cotton sheets when I heard it. A voice.

"Pull the candlestick." I was on my feet in an instant, whirling to put my back to the wall. On instinct, I grabbed the keys I'd left on the nightstand, in case I needed a weapon. My eyes scanned the room for the person who'd spoken, and came up empty. "Pull the candlestick on the fireplace, Heiress. Unless you want me stuck back here?"

Annoyance replaced my initial fight-or-flight response. I narrowed my eyes at the stone fireplace at the back of my room. Sure enough, there was a candelabra on the mantel.

"Pretty sure this qualifies as stalking," I told the fireplace—or, more accurately, the boy on the other side of it. Still, I couldn't not pull the candlestick. Who could resist something like that? I wrapped my hand around the base of the candelabra. I was met with resistance, and another suggestion came from behind the fireplace.

"Don't just pull forward. Angle it down."

I did as I was instructed. The candelabra rotated, and then I heard a click, and the back of the fireplace separated from its floor, just by an inch. A moment later, I saw fingertips in the gap, and I watched as the back of the fireplace was lifted up and disappeared behind the mantel. Now at the back of the fireplace there was an opening. Jameson Hawthorne stepped through. He straightened, then returned the candle to its upright position, and the entry he'd just used was slowly covered once more.