The Final Gambit (The Inheritance Games Book 3)

None of us slept more than three hours that night. We read every version of Luke 15:11–32 that we could find, every interpretation of it, every reference to it.

Nine seconds left on the timer. Eight. I watched it count down. Eve was sitting beside me, her feet curled under her body. Libby was on my other side. The boys were standing. Xander had the recorder ready.

Three. Two. One—

The phone rang. I answered it and set it to speaker so everyone could hear. “Hello.”

“Well, Avery Kylie Grambs?”

The use of my full name did not go unnoticed. “Luke, chapter fifteen, verses eleven through thirty-two.” I kept my voice calm, even.

“What about Luke, chapter fifteen, verses eleven through thirty-two?”

I didn’t want to perform for him. “I solved your puzzle. Let me talk to Toby.”

“Very well.”

There was silence, and then I heard Toby’s voice. “Avery. Don’t—”

The rest of that sentence was cut off. My stomach sank. I felt fury snaking its way through my body. “What did you do to him?”

“Tell me about Luke, chapter fifteen, verses eleven through thirty-two.”

He has Toby. I have to play this his way. All I could do was hope my adversary would eventually tip his hand. “The prodigal son demanded his inheritance early,” I said, trying not to let any of the emotions I was feeling into my voice. “He abandoned his family and squandered the fortune he’d been given. But despite all of this, his father embraced him upon his return.”

“A wasteful youth,” the man said, “wandering the world—ungrateful. A benevolent father, ready to welcome him home. But if memory serves correctly, there were three characters in that story, and you’ve only mentioned two.”

“The brother.” Eve came to stand beside me and spoke before I could. “He stayed and worked alongside his father for years for no reward.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone line. And then, the slash of a verbal knife: “I will talk only to the heiress. The one Tobias Hawthorne chose.”

Eve shrank in on herself, like she’d been struck, her eyes wet, her expression like stone. On the other end of the line, there was silence.

Had he hung up?

Panicked, my grip on the phone tightened. “I’m here!”

“Avery Kylie Grambs, there are three characters in the parable of the prodigal son, are there not?”

Breath left my lungs. “The son who left,” I said, sounding calmer than I felt. “The son who stayed. And the father.”

“Why don’t you ruminate on that?” There was another long pause, and then: “I’ll be in touch.”