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Abigail rubs her hands, her knuckles white in the cold. Her jet-black coat fits her perfectly and otherwise is entirely unremarkable, which is the point, I intuit. No logos, no patterns or frills. Inconspicuous functionality.

“Sort of weird, right?” she remarks. “Even with the combination, it’s strange to continue to wear your dead ex’s wedding ring.”

The flippancy with which she refers to our grandfather gives me pause, although I remind myself Abigail never met Andrew Owens.

She had never looked forward to visiting his Pennsylvania estate.

Had never played Polly Pockets on the carpet in the grand living room.

Had never known he’d meant it when he’d said he loved you.

It occurs to me, the jealousy I have for my family who is close to Leonie—everything I feel watching Mia dote on our grandmother—Abigail feels for me . I’m inexpressibly grateful for the chance to have known Andrew Owens.

A chance she never had.

“What kind of couple gets a vault combination engraved on their wedding rings?” Kevin asks, then seems to reconsider. “Actually, I retract that statement. Leonie doesn’t seem like much of a romantic. Her vows were probably a list of crimes to commit.”

“I overheard the conversation. She said it was a romantic gesture,” Jackson replies.

I can’t help wondering what my grandfather would think of his romantic gesture now. Surely, he didn’t intend for his descendants to scheme and plot to steal it. I feel shame wash over me.

“Why would she tell you that?” Deonte inquires.

I pull my thoughts out of the past. The invocation of my grandfather often leaves me emotional and introspective. I need to focus on the present.

Tom answers Deonte’s question for me. “Everything your grandmother has done so far has been to draw her family to the vault,” he points out.

“She collects her entire family together. She pretends she’s dying.

She says no one will inherit her fortune.

She tells you about her wedding ring. It’s all bait. ”

“And the one way we make sure we don’t take the bait is by knowing what her goal is,” Abigail concludes.

Jackson crosses his arms. “So she’s revealed someone else once knew the combination—Andrew. What if someone got it from him before he died?”

I glance over, pleased he’s participating—and intrigued. My pulse quickens. Jackson might have just made the critical insight.

“Yes,” I say. “What if Leonie doesn’t want to see who will steal the combination from her? What if she wants to know who already has it?”

“Exactly.” Jackson nods.

The frisson of pleasure our collaboration gives me is like nothing I’ve ever felt. I meet his gaze momentarily, wondering if he feels the same. It’s thrilling.

“Andrew was… nice. Generous. Not… you know, like my grandmother,” I say. Suspicious. Cunning. Like me. “He might have given someone the combination,” I say.

“A family member,” Tom says. “Someone who’s here. Who might be baited by Leonie’s announcement.”

I consider, not convinced. “He wasn’t as close to this part of the family. I mean, in the divorce, Uncle Hammond and Aunt Elwood moved here with Leonie. Dash was the only one who stayed with Andrew. He’s the one who handled his estate when Andrew passed, too.”

“Dash!” Kevin claps his hands. “I miss that guy!”

Five-sevenths of the room round on Kevin in horror.

I mean, I know Kevin idolized my father.

Down to wanting to hang out in Dash’s combined den-workout-room man cave during the wedding and take Instagrammable photos of himself with Dash’s ridiculously expensive watches.

Nevertheless, I kind of figured months of friendship with us had dissuaded him from his infatuation with my father.

Kevin recognizes the group’s reaction. “He brought us all together,” he offers in weak justification.

“Dash is your dad, right?” Grace clarifies.

“Unfortunately,” I say.

Abigail says nothing.

Honestly, I don’t know how Dashiell Owens became such a disaster when he had been mostly raised by the more benevolent of his parents.

My grandfather had run his newspaper empire in the United States while bringing up my father.

Empire, literally—he’d operated from the Empire State Building, where Owens Group portfolio companies hold offices now.

While the Owens companies had made him money, his philanthropy had made his name. When he wasn’t managing the flourishing industry, his charitable foundations did incredible work in New York City and elsewhere. Unsurprisingly, they’ve diminished under Dash into hollow vanity ventures.

Dash had rejected his father’s image in all the wrong ways, mistaking Andrew Owens’s dedication for inefficiency, his kindness for frivolity, his restraint for weakness.

It leaves me darkly hopeful. If Dash can end up the opposite of his father, maybe I can end up the opposite of mine.

Or maybe we Owenses only ever get worse.

“Look,” Tom says impatiently. “You know what you have to do. I can say it if you’re going to be shy about it.”

I glance over, surprised to find him focused on me. In his eyes, I do not find sympathy or selflessness. Only resolve.

Understanding his meaning instantly, I shake my head, irritated. “You can’t trust anything he says,” I reply.

Tom’s eyebrows rise. “So?” he returns. “It’s worth asking. Plus, don’t we have blackmail over this guy’s head?”

I grit my teeth. I commend his unemotional focus on what our plan requires, I do. I would have expected no less.

On the other hand—

“No,” I say, quieter. “I’m not calling Dash. I’m not even speaking to him.”

Yes, we have blackmail on my father. He can’t move against me unless he’s ready for me to tell his siblings he’s been embezzling their shares of Andrew’s trust. Still… the less involvement Dashiell Owens has in this, the better.

Tom evaluates me, his eyes hard. Finally, he understands the finality of my resistance. I’m miserably relieved.

Then Tom’s gaze moves to my sister.

It feels like a betrayal, even though I know it isn’t. Nobody speaks. Including Abigail, who understandably does not immediately grasp what Tom is implying.

When she notices everyone’s focus on her, her eyes widen. “You can’t be serious,” she says.

“You’re his daughter, too,” Deonte says somberly.

My sister’s laugh is slashing. “You want me to call the man who didn’t raise me,” she summarizes with lethal incredulity, “and ask him if the grandfather I never got to meet gave him a combination to a vault holding millions of dollars?”

“He’s going to lie,” I interject.

Abigail nods. It’s hilariously ironic. Distrust of Dash Owens remains the one power in the world capable of uniting Dash’s daughters. The last time Dash rejected her, I stood up for her, and we left victorious. We left sisters . Fleeing the house, I felt as if I were holding a precious gem.

I wasn’t. The hope was ice, not diamonds. Fragile. Worthless.

“Maybe he will,” Kevin points out, gentler. “But doesn’t he like, hate your grandmother? Maybe he’ll want to betray her.”

Even half impressed, I hate the value of the point he’s made.

Abigail sighs. In her exasperated exhalation, I know she’s concluded the same. The crew is right.

“He probably won’t even pick up,” she announces, “but fine. Why the hell not?”

I glance her way, unable to completely conceal my surprise, or to quell my irrational panic. I don’t want to hear from Dash. I don’t want to speak to him. You won’t have to , I remind myself.

Abigail takes her phone from her coat pocket. She regards the group in warning. “You all seriously need to shut up,” she demands.

No one needs the order.

Abigail taps her screen. I rise from my seat.

I hope the crew infers contemplation, not discomfort, in my move to the library window.

Jealousy and fear and anger seep into my stomach, poisoning my insides.

I face the winter night while Abigail puts her phone on speaker.

The sound of the ringing fills the library.

I don’t care who speaks to Dash , I dutifully repeat. I don’t care.

The phone rings.

I double down, insisting to myself with vengeance, I don’t care. My life for the past three months has been better without him.

Ring.

I definitely don’t want to know whether his hatred of me outweighs the newfound pride he showed in my heist. Which possibility would I resent more? His rejected heiress or his cherished enemy?

I don’t care.

The ringing stops.