The Final Gambit (The Inheritance Games Book 3)

This time, I went to see Nan alone. “Vincent Blake.” I placed the metallic disk on the dining room table, where Nan was having tea.

She snorted in my general direction. “That supposed to be a bribe?”

Either Nan had no more idea what the disk was than we did, or she was bluffing. “Tobias Hawthorne worked for a man named Vincent Blake in the early seventies. It might have been before he and Alice started dating—”

“It wasn’t,” Nan grunted. “Long courtship. The fool insisted he wanted to make something of himself before he gave my Alice his ring.”

Nan was there. She remembers.

“Tobias and Vincent Blake collaborated on a patent,” I said, trying to tune out the incessant pounding of my heart. “And then your son-in-law cheated Blake out of a development that was worth millions.”

“Did he now?” For a moment, it seemed like that was all Nan was going to say, then she scowled. “Vincent Blake was rich and fancied himself more powerful than God. He took a liking to Tobias, brought him into the fold.”

“But?” I prompted.

“Not everyone was happy about it. Mr. Blake liked to pit his protégés against each other. His son was too young to be a factor back then, but Mr. Blake had made it very clear to his nephews that being family didn’t get you a free pass. Power had to be earned. It had to be won.”

“Won,” I repeated. I thought of that first phone call with Blake. I’m just an old man with a fondness for riddles. All this time, we’d thought that Toby’s captor was playing one of Tobias Hawthorne’s games. But what if Tobias Hawthorne had taken his cue from Vincent Blake? What if, before he’d been the orchestrator of those Saturday morning games, he’d been a player?

“What happened?” I pressed Nan. “If Tobias was in Blake’s inner circle, why double-cross him?”

“Those nephews I mentioned? They wanted to send a message. Mark their territory. Put Tobias in his place.”

“What did they do?” I asked.

“There was no Mrs. Blake in those days,” Nan grunted. “She passed away when their little boy was born, and the child couldn’t have been more than fifteen when Mr. Blake started inviting Tobias over for dinner. Eventually, Tobias started bringing my Alice along. Mr. Blake took a liking to her, too, but he was of a certain type.” She gave me a look. “The type who believed that boys would be boys.”

“Did he…” I couldn’t even finish the sentence. “Did they…”

“If you’re thinking the worst, the answer is no. But if you’re thinking that the nephews came at Tobias through Alice, that they harassed her, manhandled her, and one went so far as to pin her down, force his lips to hers—well, then.”

Nan had strongly implied on more than one occasion that she’d killed her first husband, a man who’d broken her fingers for playing the piano a little too well. I deeply suspected she would have castrated Vincent Blake’s nephews if she’d had even half a chance.

“And Blake didn’t do anything?” I asked.

Nan didn’t reply, and I remembered how she’d characterized the man: as the type who believed that boys would be boys. “And that’s when your son-in-law decided to get out,” I guessed, the picture becoming clearer.

“Tobias stopped dreaming of working for Blake and set his sights on becoming him. A better version. A better man.”

“So he filed two patents,” I said. “One that they’d worked on together and then a different one—a better one. Why didn’t Blake sue him?”

“Because Tobias beat him, fair and square. Oh, it was a little underhanded, maybe, and a betrayal, certainly, but Vincent Blake appreciated someone who could play the game.”

A rich and powerful man had let a young Tobias Hawthorne go, and in return, Tobias Hawthorne had eclipsed him—billions to his millions.

“Is Blake dangerous?” I asked.

“Men like Vincent Blake and Tobias—they’re always dangerous,” Nan replied.

“Why didn’t you tell Jameson and me this earlier?”

“It was more than forty-five years ago,” Nan scoffed. “Do you know how many enemies this family has made since then?”

I thought about that. “Your son-in-law had a list of threats. Blake wasn’t on it.”

“Then Tobias must not have considered Blake a threat—that, or he thought the threat was neutralized.”

“Why would Blake take Toby?” I asked. “Why now?”

“Because my son-in-law isn’t here anymore to hold him at bay.” Nan took my hand and held it tight. The expression on her face grew tender. “You’re the one playing the piano now, girl. Men like Vincent Blake—they’ll break every one of those fingers of yours if you let them.”