These Games We Play

Chapter Eleven: Emily

“We could be making something out of nothing,” I told Jamerson hours later.

Jameson and I stood in the Hawthorne House library, looking up at the shelves circling the room, filled with books from eighteen-foot ceiling to floor.

“Hawthorne-born or Hawthorne-made, there’s always something to be played.” Jameson spoke with a singsong rhythm, like a child skipping rope. But when he brought his gaze down from the shelves to me, there was nothing childlike in his expression. “Everything is something in Hawthorne House.”

Everything. And everyone.

“Do you know how many times in my life one of my grandfather’s puzzles has sent me to this room?” Jameson turned slowly in a circle. “He’s probably rolling in his grave that it took me this long to see it.” I smiled at that, watching as the boy of me questioned the puzzle.

“What do you think we’re looking for?” I asked.

“What do you think we’re looking for, Heiress?” I had learnt that Jamerson had a way of making everything into a challenge or an invitation. Or both. I’m sure he had also learnt that I didn’t back away from a challenge.

“If the clue is a book by its cover,” I said, turning the riddle over in my mind “then I’d guess that we’re looking for either a book or a cover—or maybe a mismatch between the two?”

“A book that doesn’t match its cover?” Jameson’s expression gave no hint of what he thought of that suggestion.

“I could be wrong.” Jameson’s lips twisted—not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. “Everyone is a little wrong sometimes, Heiress.”

A challenge and an invitation. I have very little intention in being wrong. Even if it was only a little. The sooner my heart remembered that we weren’t here to fuck around and instead solve the riddle at hand, the better. I turned away from him doing a three-sixty. Slowing taking in the scape of the room.

I felt like I was dreaming looking at the amount of books that were here. We were completely encircled by books, going up two stories.

“There must be thousands of books in here.” Given how big the library was, given how high the shelves went up, if we were looking for a book mismatched to its cover sleeve… “This could take hours,” I said.

Jameson smiled—with teeth this time. “Don’t be ridiculous, Heiress. It could take days.”

☆☆☆☆

We worked in silence. Neither one of us left for dinner. We had been using our notebook to keep track of what we were up to. We hadn’t even come close to finishing. The fact I had to keep reminding Jameson to focus and not write snarky comments was slowing us down. So was the fact that I kept getting distracted when I realized that I was holding a first edition. Occasionally, I’d flip a book open to find it signed. Stephen King. J. K. Rowling. Toni Morrison. Eventually we found our rhythm. We would check a book write a note down when we finished a section and throw the notebook back and forth. I had lost track of time and I wasn’t focusing on anything but the books. That and I was focusing on Jameson. I could hear him working and feel him in the space. He had taken the upper level and I was working below.

Finally after avoiding it I looked up to see him putting a collection of books back. We were both coming up with nothing.

“What if we’re wasting our time?” I asked. My question echoed through the room.

“Time is money, Heiress. You have plenty to waste.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“I have to call you something, and you didn’t seem to appreciate Mystery Girl or the abbreviation thereof.”