How have I ended up alone in the library with Jameson Hawthorne? I honestly couldn't tell you. But here I am.
Actually, Grayson would correct me: one of 4 libraries. This one, specifically, has two-stories, with exposed iron and mahogany architecture supporting the stairs and second-story mezzanine. The atrium has a base of bear-fur rugs and velvet-adorned furniture, and it shoots up to a domed ceiling of gleaming windows.
How many people does it take to clean this place?
Jameson is leaning against the rail of the mezzanine, taking books off the shelf, flipping through them and throwing them wherever there isn't already a book.
Including at me.
"Hey, asshole," I say from his left.
He looks around sarcastically. "Is Grayson here?"
I respond without blinking an eye, "You hit me with
this-" I glance at the cover and open to the title page. "Signed copy of 1984? How does somebody have so much money."
"Well, you might want to figure it out, considering that somebody is now you, Heiress." He goes back to his raid of the library shelves.
I reach up and take down a fabric-spined copy of Anne of Green Gables. Nothing. I sigh and keep going.
An hour later, almost every book is off of the shelves. Jameson and I are sitting on the floor of opposite sides of the room. I lean back and stare at the starry sky through the window.
"I think we might've been wrong," Jameson says. I hear a book thump on the floor.
"I can't believe you admit it." I lift my legs up, putting the backs of my dark green Converse on an empty shelf.
"Well, I need a drink," he says, turning around and glancing down to make eye contact with me, "Care to join?"
"Sure," I respond while I use a shelf to get myself up. "What are we drinking?"
A few minutes later, I learn that the answer is bourbon. "Specifically Baton's Char 4. $2,200 a bottle," Jameson explains, getting two crystal glasses from the bar's cabinets. He pours us each about three fingers worth. We clink our glasses together, the sound echoing through the wine cellar.
I take a sip. It's smooth; sweet, with a vanilla-ness to it. Jameson smells the inside of the glass before taking a drink. The bourbon burns the back of my throat as I swallow. "We shouldn't be doing this. We have school tomorrow," I say.
"Eh, we can skip. We have a mystery to solve, Heiress," he says casually.
"Oren won't like that," I say sarcastically.
"What do you think the books mean? Is there a book that could connect you to him?" Jameson asks, literally on the edge of his seat.
"No, nothing I can think of." We drink in comfortable silence for a minute. "Listen, if we're taking a break from mystery stuff, let's actually take a break from mystery stuff-"
"Okay, fine," he cuts me off. "Let's get to know each other better. What was your mom like?"
I'm slow to open that door. I hesitate, but after some mental gymnastics I get to a conclusion: I can trust Jameson. I can tell him. "She was just...great. We used to play all these games she would make up: Monopoly and The Game of Life and Twister, all at once, the floor is lava, the flashlight game when our lights got shut off. She's the one who taught me chess." I pause to take a drink. "I really miss her," I say, my voice catching in my throat. I smile through it. "When I was in eighth grade, I was taking this algebra class that I just could not figure out. She taught me how to play chess because 'If you can figure how to get out of a chess trap, you can figure out what x is.' Once I learned one thing, the other thing seemed so much simpler. Crazy how we tick like that, you know?"
