Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94874 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94874 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
And me?
We all know the hell I’m going through. Barely am I hanging on by my fingernails. Any moment, I’ll lose the battle and plummet to a grisly death. Part of me wonders if it would be better that way. Exactly how much harassment is one person expected to withstand?
“We’ll see,” I mutter cautiously, gaze falling to my father. “Hey, Dad?” I wait for him to glance up from the papers he’s shuffling around. “Would you mind telling me a little more about the company?”
He blinks before taking off the wire-framed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. “Why do you want to know about that?”
His guarded expression takes me by surprise. I was expecting him to be delighted with my interest.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I remember you saying that the town is named after us because the company was founded here.”
Dad leans back in his chair as he carefully contemplates the comment. “Yeah, that’s right.”
“The school, too.”
“Yeah,” he says in a clipped tone. “That as well.”
“It’s almost like they loved the Hawthorne family so much, they named everything after us.” Nothing could be further from the truth, but it seems like a good place to start this fishing expedition.
His lips thin and I get the distinct impression he disagrees with the statement. “Herbert Hawthorne did that.” There’s a pause. “A lot of people claimed that he was a narcissist, which is why he named everything after himself.”
“Huh.” My gaze flickers around the space, touching on the window, fireplace, and bookshelves. The smell of aged leather-bound volumes permeates the air. That, coupled with the scent of lemony wood polish, must be what reminds me of Hawthorne Prep. “So, if everything in town is named after us, that must mean he started the company by himself.”
“No,” he admits reluctantly, “in the beginning, Great-Grandpa Herbert had a partner.”
A prickle of unease fills my belly when I realize that at least one piece of information Kingsley gave me was accurate.
“Oh,” I say carefully, “that’s interesting. Who was his partner?”
A frown settles on Dad’s features as he sits forward, resting his elbows on the desk and staring at me with narrowed eyes. “Is there a reason you’re asking?”
Surprised by the suspicion that fills his expression, I jerk my shoulders. “Just curious. It’s our family history and the reason we had to uproot our lives and move here.” I wave a hand toward them. “Aren’t you two always encouraging me to ask questions?”
“She’s right, Griffin,” Mom chimes in, looking as perplexed by her husband’s odd behavior as I am.
Dad’s lips flatten before he begrudgingly continues. “Herbert’s partner was a man named Gerald Rothchild.”
Rothchild? Why does that name sound so familiar?
The store in town where I picked up my school supplies had the same name. There’s no way that’s a coincidence. It must be the same family, right?
“Like the store in town?” I ask, the wheels in my brain spinning, integrating all this newly gleaned information.
“Yes.”
I wait for him to pepper in a few more details, but he remains stoically silent. Normally, if I ask Dad a question, he expounds on the topic ad nauseam, giving me way more information than I wanted.
With no other choice, I tilt my head and try to get him talking again. “Do the Rothchild’s still own part of the company?”
“No.”
Herbert Hawthorne tricked his partner into signing the company over to him.
Is that what really happened?
My frustration grows as Dad remains tightlipped. Why do I have to drag every little detail from him? “When did that happen? Did they part amicably?”
Dad forces out a chuckle, but the amusement doesn’t reach his eyes. “What’s with all the questions, huh? Are you really this interested in our family history?”
In this particular case?
Absolutely.
Every day, it becomes painfully clear that the people of Hawthorne hate us because of something that happened in the past. Until I’m able to get to the bottom of what that is, I can’t understand or fix the problem.
Shifting my weight, I hastily manufacture an excuse. “I was thinking about writing a paper on the topic for English class.”
The lines of tension bracketing his eyes and mouth grow more pronounced. “That’s probably not such a good idea.”
“Oh?” I perk up, ready to pounce. “How come?” He needs to give me something here other than the run around.
“It’s just not,” he says tightly, flicking his gaze to his wife before forcing a smile. “There are more interesting topics to focus on, like astronomy.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
That’s not going to happen. Now I’m more determined than ever to figure out our past. Even though I’m tempted to keep asking questions, intuition tells me it would be prudent to drop the topic for the time being and come at it again at a later point.
I take a step into the hall. “All right then, I should probably—”