The Inheritance Games: Chapters 11–25

“We can’t stay here, Libby. I doubt the rest of the family is as blasé about the will as Nash is. We need to go.”

Libby and I were getting “who let the rabble in?” looks from other patrons just standing in the lobby.

“Besides which,” Alisa continued, “the will is now in probate. It may be some time before the money and properties are out of escrow, but in the meantime, McNamara, Ortega, and Jones will be picking up the tab for anything you need.”

“Besides,” Alisa added, “in the state of Texas, if an heir dies while a will is in probate, the inheritance doesn’t revert to the original estate—it becomes part of the heir’s estate.”

“Maybe your mother saved his life, years ago. Maybe he owes his entire fortune to your great-great-grandfather. Maybe you were selected via an advanced computer algorithm that is poised to develop artificial intelligence any day!”

“There are some security protocols I’d like to go over with you.”

“Alisa,” I gritted out, “does your law firm have a hit man on retainer?”

She scowled back at him, made three phone calls in quick succession—two of them in Spanish and then turned back to my head of security.

I flipped through the keys, inspecting the designs on the handles. An apple. A snake. A pattern of swirls reminiscent of water.

“Sometimes,” Jameson Hawthorne said, sounding strangely contemplative, “things that appear very different on the surface are actually exactly the same at their core.”

I stopped breathing, just for an instant, as I crossed the threshold. It was like stepping into Buckingham Palace or Hogwarts and being told that it was yours.

“Down that corridor,” Alisa said, “we have the theater, the music room, conservatory, solarium....”

"If something needs doing, there’s someone to do it,” Mr. Laughlin said plainly, “and I see that it’s done in the most discreet fashion possible. More often than not, you won’t even know they’re here.”

“Movement on and off the estate is strictly tracked, and no one makes it past the gates without a deep background check. Construction crews, the housekeeping and gardening staff, every masseuse, chef, stylist, or sommelier—they are all cleared through my team.”

“Don’t go convincing yourself Lee-Lee is consortin’ with the enemy,” Nash told Mrs. Laughlin.

Nash swung his attention to my sister, and I could feel her trying to fade into oblivion.

Just some friendly impromptu wrestling between brothers.

They shared a bond that was impervious to outsiders.

“You shouldn’t be here at all,” Grayson replied tersely.

“We’ll stop for cookies on the way.”
If that statement was meant to dissipate the tension in the room, it didn’t work, but it did draw Grayson’s attention away from Jameson—for the moment.

“Scone-eating expertise,” I repeated in a deadpan.

“That will serve you well in these halls, but if there is one universal truth in the human experience, it is that a finely honed scone-eating palate does not just develop overnight.”

Jameson kept his hands to himself, but the heady expression in his eyes never shifted.

It sounded like it had been written by someone who hadn’t slept in days—manic, rattling off one platitude after another.

With some hefty pushes on the power button and a little bit of luck, I managed to cajole it back on.

People who had spent their lives ignoring me clamored for my attention.

I’d hoped to have you enrolled and at least partially acclimated before news of your inheritance broke in the press, but we’ll deal with the hand we’ve been dealt.

“It’s fine,” I told Oren, squelching the memory.

“Here.” I reached into my bag and handed him my letter.
“I showed you mine," Jameson said, playing the double entendre for all it was worth. “You show me yours.”

And there I was, wearing a pleated plaid skirt and a burgundy blazer, complete with a navy crest embossed with Latin words I didn’t know how to read.

It wasn’t Oren’s job to coddle me.

“You shouldn’t thank us unless you want to owe us a boon.”

“We're not so bad, really. Most of us anyway. As long as you’re with me, you’ll be fine.”
That rankled. “I’ll be fine regardless,” I told her.

“Xander. Looks like you lost.”
“There are no losers in Robot Battle Death Match Fight Club,” Xander said stoically.

Thea gave an elegant little shrug, undaunted.

“Now," Dr. Mac—as she’d insisted on being called—continued, “in terms of electives, I would suggest Making Meaning, which focuses on the study of how meaning is conveyed through the arts and includes a strong component of civic engagement with local museums, artists, theater productions, the ballet company, the opera, and so on. Given the support the Hawthorne Foundation has traditionally provided to these endeavors, I believe you will find the course...useful.’’

I heard a flush in the background and realized she must have been in the bathroom—at a school that wasn’t as lax about student free time as this one.

“Refectory?” I repeated, trying to sound normal.
Xander grinned. “It's prep school for cafeteria.”

“As it so happens,” Xander said, “I hate talking about Thea. Shall we discuss your little tête-à-tête with Jameson last night instead?”
He knew that his brother had been to my room. “It wasn’t a tête-à-tête."

“I was the youngest. The least competitive. The most apt to be distracted by scones or complex machinery.”