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I S THAT A THREAT?”

In response to my very reasonable question, Abigail laughs humorlessly.

“Not from me,” she replies.

Like we’re dear friends enjoying the honored ritual of kaffee und kuchen , the boys pull up chairs.

Jackson positions himself near me. Deonte is closest to Abigail, watching her with emotions I don’t know how to decipher.

Kevin gazes longingly at the coffee counter, undoubtedly imagining himbeerkuchen .

I hold Abigail’s gaze, evaluating its impassive depth—impenetrable, or just empty?

“You haven’t been invited to a family reunion,” she says. “You’ve been invited into a trap.”

I feel like she’s hoping I’ll gasp in dismay or exclaim in rapturous gratitude. No way. I cross my arms, pretending to reminisce.

“Hm, a trap,” I say. “Hey, didn’t you once set a trap for me at a family event? I’m trying to remember.… Something to do with a side deal with our father and handcuffs in a safe?”

Abigail purses her lips petulantly. “Maybe you should listen to me, then,” she replies. “I know what I’m talking about.”

Dropping the performance, I don’t let my stare waver. I want her to know she and her Mausoleum Mold hat and her outwitting Kevin Webber don’t intimidate me. I’m not letting anyone frighten me away from my heist. Especially not an enigmatic half sister I don’t trust.

“So kind of you to give me your warning in person,” I say sweetly. “Hope you have a nice trip home.”

“I’m not going home,” Abigail replies.

Now I falter.

Abigail reaches into her coat. I recognize instantly what she pulls from her pocket. The cream-white cardstock. The black lining.

Impossible.

Dash kept my sister secret from everyone, I assumed. I was wrong. Of course I was—Abigail’s very presence in my life proves how no information is undiscoverable, doesn’t it? Especially where family is concerned.

“Dash’s secret seems to be not so secret anymore,” she confirms.

She places her invitation next to her computer. Protective, yet assertive. Claiming her position. I wonder whether the letter’s arrival surprised her, innocuous and explosive in the mail slot of wherever she lives, or if she remained as she looks now.

“ Pardonnez-moi, monsieur ,” Kevin says, unprompted, in admirably accented French.

Incredulous, I look over, finding him flagging the nearest server.

The waiter pauses smoothly next to us. “I speak English,” he offers. “Or German. Not much French.”

“Oh. Okay.” Dismayed not to use his Francophone skills, Kevin rebounds quickly. “Right. We’ll need, um, three schoggibirnen , one macarons platter, and of course, three pieces of your finest himbeerkucken .”

“Excellent choices, sir.” The waiter glides off. Abigail watches, her impression half impatient. I’ve got to say, I’m with her for once.

“I’m sure you’ll get to use your French soon,” Jackson comments quietly to Kevin.

Abigail’s eyes move to Jackson, her expression changing. Does she ever regret the hell she put him through? To prevent Jackson from discouraging the wedding heist, she framed him for cheating on me so I would dump him—which I did.

If I were her, I might consider Jackson Roese the unfortunate innocent caught up in her manipulation of me. But I no longer have the luxury of assuming regret from my relatives.

“So,” I summarize, nodding to her invitation on the table, “you won’t reach out to me even though I helped you, but you’re coming to meet the extended family?”

Again, more pain than I want to admit enters my voice. It’s annoying, wishing I were more like my unflinching sister.

“I wasn’t going to come,” Abigail clarifies, like of course not . “Then I learned about Leonie’s announcement. Her numbered days ,” Abigail says with overdramatic sarcasm. It’s callous, even for her.

I don’t focus on her flippancy, however. I have more important preoccupations raised by her comment.

“How, exactly?” Deonte asks, speaking my question. “You’ve been in Switzerland, watching us?”

She doesn’t shrink or look embarrassed. “No. I was home,” she replies. Home —the word its own reminder of how I have no idea what it means for her. “I’ve just been… monitoring a couple of email accounts.”

I roll my eyes with affection I know she sees. She sees everything.

“Whose?” I ask.

“Uncle Hammond isn’t pleased you’re here. He emailed his assistant to complain, and then almost as an afterthought he asked her to put in calls to Leonie’s doctors. Something about her dying,” she explains. “Only… she isn’t.”

Everyone falls silent. I mean, not everyone —the charming clamor of the café doesn’t diminish. My crew, however, has frozen in the middle of the cozy warmth.

Jackson speaks up. “What do you mean?”

My heart pounds unevenly.

“Leonie’s not dying,” Abigail replies lightly. “I hacked her medical records based on Hammond’s helpful tip-off. She could stand to improve her vitamin B levels, but otherwise,” Abigail says, “she’s perfectly healthy.”

My mind whirls.

What is it with my family and delivering dizzying comments as if they’re innocuous nothings? Abigail has managed to inherit this power from Leonie without ever meeting her paternal grandmother.

I flag our waiter and order a cappuccino, large, with extra espresso.

I know I’m in for a long night. Abigail’s revelation demands re-strategizing.

Leonie is… playing a game. She announced she’s dying and her fortune will die with her, sparking a race to the inheritance among her family. A race she wants .

“Well, that’s good news, I guess,” Kevin says. “Glad your grandma isn’t dying.”

I spare him a glance. “Why did she want us to think she is, though?”

“To see how everyone responds?” Jackson suggests.

Our waiter returns. Kevin’s pastries come with my coffee. Himbeerkuchen glistening with sugary glaze, chocolate-covered pears, and macarons. Jackson reaches for one of the pears immediately. Deonte, despite his focus on the conversation, seems similarly intrigued.

I sip my cappuccino, ignoring the pastry parade and letting the caffeine focus me. Leonie drew everyone’s attention to her fortune and then she told them they would never have it.

“Abigail is right,” I declare. “It’s a trap. She reminded everyone of the vault. She told them they wouldn’t inherit. It’s bait. She wants someone to go for the gold.”

But why?

It’s a question I can’t answer without more information. Information Abigail, on the outside, probably doesn’t have. Not even expert hacking could pervade the corners of my grandmother’s corrupted mind. Unfortunately.

Which means we’re done here.

I stand from my seat. “Well, we have to be back at the castle for dinner,” I inform Abigail with frosty formality. “I’d ask if you’re joining, but you probably won’t answer.”

In punctuation, I finish my coffee. If Kevin prefers to finish his desserts in my sister’s company, he is more than welcome. I’m leaving with Jackson.

“Olivia.”

Abigail grabs my wrist. Her urgency destroys her impassive facade, and I find myself hesitating. Her expression is—not worried. Just not dispassionate, either. Real sister-of-the-year stuff.

“I know you came here to get into that vault,” she says. “It’s what Leonie wants you to do. You know you can’t. Not until you see the full board at play here.”

You came here to get into that vault.

Her voice is hushed, fortunately. I don’t want our waiter hearing vault when he comes to collect Kevin’s schoggibirnen plate in the midst of the crowded café. Kaffee und kuchen und sabotage.

Abigail’s awareness of the plan itself is damage enough, however. She releases my wrist, knowing her words will hold me.

I want to dart glares around my crew. One of them had to have told her our purpose in Switzerland.

Obvious intentions present themselves—possibly they wanted to reunite the full group or felt bad Abigail was excluded.

Likelier, they’re conning me from within my crew. Abigail herself once did, didn’t she?

As if she’s reading my mind, Abigail smiles.

“Don’t blame your crew,” she preempts me with sweetened patronization. “No one told me. It was obvious. When I saw Hammond’s emails, I booked a flight here immediately. Then I did more digging in the airport.”

She puts her index finger to her lips, pantomiming contemplation.

“Hm,” she muses. “I wonder why Olivia Owens, Jackson Roese, Tom Pham, Grace Pham, Kevin Webber, and Deonte Jones would all be in Switzerland at the same time. What a fun group of pals. Ski trip? Chocolate and cheese tasting? Oh—or maybe you’re trying to steal millions of dollars from yet another one of Olivia’s relatives. ”

I sit, furious. I hate how she put the pieces together only because she was once part of my crew. The dangers of a crew are much like the dangers of a family. They remember your every weakness and secret.

The difference is, my crew are people I chose . With Abigail, it was a mistake from the very beginning.

“Poor Peter McCoy got left out this time?” she inquires lightly.

“He wasn’t interested,” I reply.

Her lips purse. “Ah, so it was just me who missed the memo,” she says.

“I can’t trust you.”

“And yet now you have to,” she returns.

I hold her stare. I don’t like being told what I have to do. I don’t trust anyone, not fully. I’m certainly not going to start with my sister.

“I thought you came here to warn me,” I point out. “This feels more like blackmail.”

Abigail’s expression flickers. I wasn’t expecting the unguarded reaction.

“You… helped me when you didn’t have to,” she finally admits. “So let me say this. You should go home. Live the life you already have, not the one you have to steal. Leave Leonie to her miserable games.”

I could. I know I could. I could forget the Owens family. I could want the college acceptances Peter McCoy wants for me. I could content myself with my mother’s new home and health. I could release myself from wondering when my schemes will stop Jackson from loving me.

Except, I couldn’t. Not really.

I feel it more with every passing minute. What this Swiss venture means for me. The irreversible changes I’m working with my plans. One heist is something I did . Two is… something I’m becoming .

“So you can swoop in and steal the gold? No, thank you,” I say instead. The confrontation feels good. The competitiveness. It hits me like the caffeine or the cold wind outside. Harsh. Invigorating.

It feels like me .

Abigail smiles. “I did figure you would say that, sister. Looks like you’re stuck with me, then,” she replies.

Our eyes lock. I hold on to my pride, realizing, unlike my last duel with Abigail Pierce, I haven’t exactly lost our rematch. What has it earned me? A stalemate. A complication. A reunion.

“Abigail,” Deonte says.

I look to him. Abigail does, too.

Deonte pushes the plate of macarons forward. “Want one?” he offers. “I recommend”—he points to the pale green puff—“the pistachio.”

Abigail considers. Then, evidently concluding we have not engineered some secret scheme to poison her, she reaches for the pistachio macaron.

“The flavor profile is complicated,” Deonte promises with culinary authoritativeness. “It’s not what you think it’ll be.”

When Abigail delicately samples the cookie, I catch the quickest flash of hunger in her eyes—not, maybe, for pastry.

“Hey,” Kevin interjects.

I worry he wants to defend his desserts from Deonte’s generosity. Instead, Kevin reaches for Abigail’s invitation next to her computer.

He slides the cardstock closer, reading the fine print.

“You have a plus-one,” he says.