Page 27

B Y THE TIME WE RETURN TO DINNER, DESSERT HAS BEEN CLEARED, meaning I’ve missed Deonte’s Sacher torte. I suffer through my family smoking cigars and drinking brandy for the next hour, turning over the night’s developments.

Leonie keeps the combination on her.

She’s a formidable fortress of a woman, and it’s reassuring to know the combination is never out of her sight.

But… someone tried to kill Ernest Hensson.

Was it because he brought them the wrong numbers and failed them?

Because his theft had been reported to Otto?

Who was he sitting beside on that ski lift?

Anyone who can get away with attempted murder in broad daylight could surely rip a necklace off a seventy-year-old woman.

Which means I still need to try to get it before anyone else. But I’ll have to be careful. My grandmother’s eyes are on me. In invoking the wedding heist, she ensured I know she’s watching me closely.

Abigail was right. The invitation is a trap. I can’t fall into it.

I need information—hence the strategy meeting I plan with the crew for two in the morning in the library. When dinner ends, I pretend to go to bed early, not wanting to speak to Mia.

Volenvell quiets in darkness like Rhode Island never does. I wait until I’m certain my cousin is asleep, then, with Mia’s gentle, even respiration soundtracking my socked footsteps out of our room, I hold my shoes in one hand while I steal into the hallway.

Jackson’s door opens noiselessly. He emerges, clear-eyed despite the hour. He looks off, though, frowning hollowly. Something’s bothering him.

Obviously, Mia’s twisted game had her desired effect. I’m not surprised Jackson balked at her demands. Deep down, I wonder if it’s the real reason I’m attracted to him. Not how he makes me laugh, not how his hair curls. Not his gem-cut smile with his dangerously kind eyes.

It’s his goodness. His honesty. They’re the rarest prize. Something not even a world-class vault could protect.

I reach for his hand in the dark. “I’m sorry about what Mia dared Tom. I didn’t want to, you know,” I say honestly.

Jackson looks up, surprised. “It’s fine. Honest. You don’t have anything to apologize for,” he replies. He starts down the passageway.

I walk with him, our footsteps silent. “Are you sure?” I ask, unable to ignore his strained expression. “You seem upset.”

Jackson pauses. I follow his patient footsteps—until, without preface, he pulls me into an alcove where no moonlight reaches. He hems me in, pressing me flat to the wall with deliberate urgency.

“I want a do-over,” he demands.

Finding my voice isn’t easy. “A do-over?” I repeat.

Jackson nods. “Give me a dare.”

I falter. While his request is, well, compelling, I know why he’s doing it. “Jackson… this really isn’t necessary.”

He’s insistent. His hand finds the curve of my hip. “I want to show you,” he insists, “what I can do.”

My cheeks flush. My resolve weakens. I fight to hold on. “I dare you to… say something nice to Tom tonight.”

Jackson’s eyes fall closed in pained exasperation. “Olivia. I was hoping for something… sexier,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow. “I need to dare you for that?”

Now Jackson’s gaze locks on mine—and unlocks something in me. The charge in his eyes practically illuminates the dark passage.

“No,” he replies. “For that, all you need to do is ask.”

He’s played me right where he wants me. “And what,” I hear myself sigh, “would you have me ask for?”

Jackson leans in close.

“You’re the mastermind, King,” he returns.

His whisper on my skin pulls goose bumps to my neck. I feel myself arch forward, the wanting like magnetism—

Then Jackson withdraws. He holds out his hand, playing gentleman. “Ready for the crew meeting?” he asks as if he didn’t just have me haywire, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

And I find that I’m grinning. “You’re not very nice, Roese,” I admonish.

“You noticed,” Jackson returns.

Pretending I’m rueful, I place my hand in Jackson’s. He leads me from the passage into the main hallway. On the stairwells, we tread carefully, minimizing the castle’s creaking.

In the dead of night, the quiet makes the white walls and wrought-iron candleholders even more intimidating. Every hallway draws slanted shadows on the floor. Every window opens onto empty opacities of night.

It’s embarrassingly comforting when, entering the East Library, I hear hushed voices.

“No, really. It’s so good.”

I hardly recognize my sister speaking. The sound is undeniably her voice.

Yet her inflection, her enthusiasm, her unreserved eagerness, is like nothing I’ve ever heard from her, even when she impersonated Cassidy Cross in my first crew.

I follow Jackson into the wood-paneled room, genuinely curious who she’s praising.

It’s Deonte. He passes her the fork he’s holding. The only light on in the library illuminates the plate of Deonte’s mille-feuilles they’re sharing.

I don’t doubt my sister’s opinion. Deonte’s craftsmanship looks characteristically remarkable. The flat panes of flaky dough sit levelly on luscious cream puffs in perfect rows, orderly except for where the pair of them have carved off crispy chunks.

My mouth waters. Jackson’s stomach rumbles.

The puffiness isn’t the point, though. Deonte explained how the rectangular cakes could easily be hollowed out in the center. He’ll place the top layer of the cake over the cream-hidden cavity. Our own miniature vaults of confection.

Deonte stands, preempting my questions. “I’ve been tinkering with the recipe to make the top layer sturdier, so we can lift it off and on to fill the inside with the gold,” he explains.

“Pierre agreed it’s the perfect birthday cake for Leonie, and he’s given me the honor of making test batch after test batch to get it just right.

Of course, most of those batches will end up hollow in the center. ”

I don’t object, taking my seat in one of the maroon chairs. The room is freezing, unheated in the middle of the night. Each of us wears a jacket as if we’re outside.

Otherwise, the setting has good undercover-meeting vibes. Mahogany shelves full of old leather spines and dust-covered pages, grand old furniture inviting reading or contemplation. It’s made for cozy conspiracy.

The door opens. Kevin enters. Then Tom with Grace, each of them parka-clad like us. Of course, the Phams look irritatingly flawless despite the unfortunate hour of our meeting.

Grace doesn’t comment on or introduce herself to Abigail, whose inclusion in the crew I relayed to her and Tom earlier, along with the information Abigail revealed about Leonie’s death ruse.

Tom’s eyes find the mille-feuilles. “Please tell me you have another fork,” he says to Deonte.

As if he anticipated the question, Deonte produces one from the napkin in his coat.

Only one. Tom eyes Grace. “No way I’m sharing,” he declares.

“Works for me,” Grace replies.

She walks over to Deonte. Unhesitating, she plucks the fork from his fingers, then proceeds to lick the utensil. “Gross,” Tom complains.

Grace grins in victory. She sits next to Abigail, and with a flourish, stabs into the cream-puff masterpiece. When she samples her first bite, she moans in ecstasy.

Tom pouts. He wanders to the chair opposite mine, where he continues to pantomime dejection, dropping onto the cushions.

I watch the Phams, wondering how many desserts they’ve fought over.

How many insults they’ve exchanged, how often they’ve made each other laugh.

What meaningless fights they’ve had, knowing they’ll be in each other’s lives tomorrow.

How little they’ve had to wonder if they could depend on the other.

Weakness leads my eyes to Abigail. Why? Why do I keep yearning for family? Why do I want for relationships I’ll never have? Why do I wait out in the cold of the Owens family?

My sister catches me looking. She glares.

I roll my eyes, knowing how pathetic it is for me to pretend it’s our version of sibling squabbling. It’s what I have, I guess.

“Grace,” I say, refocusing on what’s important. On to heist proceedings. I gesture to Grace’s couch-mate. “This is Abigail, my sister. Abigail—”

“Grace Pham,” Abigail interrupts me. “Stanford sophomore, 3.92 GPA, engineering physics major, dance minor. Last year you had a citation for walking across campus with an open bottle.”

“Weird that you know that,” Grace comments pleasantly.

“Abigail is a hacker,” I explain.

Grace’s expression brightens. “Oh, very cool,” she replies. “Think you can erase that citation next time you’re in there?”

My sister’s cheeks redden with the praise. “We pull this off, then sure,” she offers.

“Not if I pay you fifty grand to throw two more on instead,” Tom grumbles, evidently not letting the mille-feuille usurpation go.

“You wouldn’t,” Grace returns.

“I think that shows exemplary strategic thinking, Tom,” Jackson states, absolutely out of nowhere.

Everyone’s gaze lands on him with confusion. Tom’s eyebrows rise. When I realize what he’s doing, I nearly laugh. My dare.

“Praise from you is better than any riches,” Tom replies drolly.

Kevin glances between the two of them, grinning. “Is it finally happening? Are you two becoming buds?”

“No,” they reply simultaneously.

Kevin catches my eye, winking.

“Okay,” I interject, ushering the moment on out of sympathy for Jackson. “Let’s get to business. As you all know by now, Leonie keeps the vault combination engraved on her wedding ring,” I summarize. “We were unsuccessful in retrieving it tonight.”

“We don’t need the combination,” Grace interrupts me. She finishes the mille-feuilles and places the violated fork on the plate while Tom frowns.

“No,” I reply, “but we need to make sure no one else gets it, and to understand what game Leonie is playing by pretending to be dying. Whatever her plan, this is part of it,” I continue. “She keeps the ring on her at all times, worn as a necklace.”