Page 29

D ASHIELL O WENS SPEAKING. W HO IS THIS AND HOW DO YOU HAVE this number?”

Everything my father says hurts like paper cuts. You don’t feel them the instant they happen. Only seconds later do you look down, realizing, Oh, shit, I’m bleeding . Then the pain comes.

Right now, it’s the memories of him his voice invites.

I resist how, in relatively exact detail, I know where he is right now.

It’s not yet nine p.m. in Rhode Island. He’s either in the very office where I stole from him, working through however many Owens Group emails equals one glass of scotch.

Or he’s retired to the den, iPad in hand, perusing his podcast reviews. Maybe Maureen is with him.

I have plenty of resentment for Dashiell Owens—of course I do. My own fortune of misfortunes, my hoard of unhappiness.

It’s just infuriatingly impossible to extricate the wanting from the wounds. Every recollection of him ignoring me is intertwined with hoping he would look up from his iPhone.

My only memory of his pride in me is one I would rather forget.

You are my legacy. Heiress to an empire of thieves.

“Dad, hi,” Abigail says.

“Olivia?”

I’m not ready for how urgent his voice is. Quickened with paper-cut pain of his own. As if he… misses me.

Despite myself, I face his voice coming from the phone, my heart clenching. Good , I remember furiously. He should miss me. He should miss everything I took from him, too.

“Is that you?” he presses.

How have I earned his love in reverse? I fight not to imagine him standing from his cushioned chair or couch, iPad forgotten. Maureen watching in guarded curiosity as he displays care she neither has nor wants from him. It’s like everything in my relationship with Dash Owens—messed up.

Of course, I’m not the only one who feels the same.

“Sorry to disappoint,” my sister drawls.

“Abigail,” Dash says impatiently. I recognize his frustration perfectly. Nothing except his own hope deceived him. Join the club, Dad. “Of course,” he says. “What is it?”

Everyone hears the instant cooling of his voice. Kevin winces.

Abigail has practice with our father’s disinterest. She doesn’t flinch. When she speaks, her sarcasm holds nothing except steel matching Dash’s dismissiveness. “I have the sudden urge to learn about my grandparents. You know, the ones you never introduced me to?”

My sister’s reference to Dash’s negligence doesn’t register. He grunts.

“Don’t bother,” he recommends, confident now, counseling Abigail on what he has and she doesn’t—Owens family experience. “Your grandmother is even worse than me. Your grandfather is dead.”

Abigail doesn’t reply. Her expression doesn’t change. She’s playing the phone call like chess. Emotionless opening moves in careful order. The former Queen, retaking her place in the game.

“Volenvell sure is something,” she says.

Even over the phone, we hear the breath Dash sucks in.

Footsteps on hardwood follow, confirming my first premise. He’s in his office. He closes the door, the dead bolt reminding me of when Abigail left me handcuffed inside.

“Put your sister on the phone,” our father demands.

His favoritism makes its first crack in my sister’s icy facade. “Can’t, sorry,” she lies. “Olivia isn’t here.”

“I know she is,” Dash snaps. “Quinn Rhodes wasn’t completely useless before his arrest.”

I stifle a laugh. Glad to know news has reached Dash. Hopefully, he’ll learn not to put spies on me unless he wants to spend money bailing them out.

“Did your father ever tell you the combination to the vault?” she asks. “Did you inherit a list of his passwords and codes?”

“Abigail, if you want more of my family’s money, I suggest you stick to stealing it,” Dash replies.

My family. Not our . It’s a cruel remark, intended to distract and disorient.

If Abigail is wounded, she doesn’t show it. Her eyes narrow. “Your family,” she repeats. “They miss you oh so much,” she presses.

Now Dash laughs. The laugh I remember very, very well. Heartlessness in humor’s disguise. “Stirring up my resentment in hopes I’ll help you? Nice try,” he shoots back.

I chew my lip until, decisive, I step forward, preempting Abigail’s next provocation. I grab the phone from my surprised sister’s hand.

“Tell me the vault combination or I’ll tell Uncle Hammond about the trust,” I say.

In the darkness, I find Jackson, watching me with naked empathy. He knows exactly what it cost me. The first words I’ve uttered to my father in months.

Dash says nothing.

When he speaks, his resistance does not entirely hide his horrible relief. Relief that I’m safe or relief that I haven’t spilled his secrets yet? “Olivia, blackmail doesn’t work like that,” he replies.

“It works however I say it works,” I hiss.

“Look,” my father restarts, patient now. “I respect what you’re trying to do here. I really do.”

The worst part is, I know he means it. His respect is like ice in my veins.

“What do the dagger cuff links mean?” I demand. If Dash is staying stubborn about the code, I need to leverage everything I have. Everything I know. “I know you had some. I know they recently went missing.”

Dash goes silent. In the phone line’s empty hiss, I wonder if Swiss mountaintop cell service has failed us.

Then my father delivers me his second surprise of the conversation. Urgency enters his voice. The urgency of fear, not of love.

“How do you know about the cuff links?” he asks.

“Tell me the code,” I say, “and I’ll tell you how.”

Dash loses his patience. “God damn it,” he explodes. “This is dangerous . You girls are risking your lives meddling in this business.”

His flash of what resembles paternal concern pisses me off. As if we’re hungover after a sleepover or driving without seat belts or whatever exasperates regular parents. Dash hasn’t earned the right to concern.

It’s not quite enough to distract me from what he’s said, however. Risking our lives? Overdramatic much?

Except… Ernest Hensson likely wouldn’t say so.

“I don’t need you to tell me where you saw my cuff links. Obviously, you’ve seen them at Volenvell. Olivia, stay away from them,” Dash insists. “I can’t help you with the vault. Can’t , not won’t. My dad never gave me the combination. I didn’t find it in any of his things, either.”

“You must have asked for it,” I push.

“Of course I did,” Dash says. “He gave me everything I ever wanted, except that.”

His voice holds love I’ve never heard from him.

The revelation disorients me.

The ice in my veins hardens. I don’t want to see the tender side of my father. I don’t want to wonder whether he cared about someone other than himself. What if Dash Owens had loved his father the way I love my mom?

What if… Dash had once loved my mom the way I love Jackson?

If I’m no different from him, what then? What if my efforts to escape the prison of family have only drawn me deeper in?

I pull my eyes from the phone. “What about Andrew’s wedding ring? Do you have it?”

Dash is silent a long moment. He sighs, weary, before he speaks. “His was engraved with her name. Come home, and I’ll show you.”

His answer doesn’t surprise me. The vault combination might have been romantic to Leonie, but it wouldn’t have been to Andrew. “We’re done here,” I say, mustering disdain.

“No, wait—” my father interjects.

“Nice chat, Dad,” Abigail chimes in.

“Stay out of—”

I hang up.

In the hushed library, everyone waits. I hand Abigail back her phone. Grace watches me with quiet interest. I feel Jackson’s concerned stare with well-honed Jackson intuition. Tom looks straight forward.

Abigail voices everyone’s question, her words emotionless.

“Do you believe him?”

Pacing, I imitate my sister’s unflinching directness on the phone. Obviously, I doubt the honesty of the man who’d cheated on my mother multiple times, then kicked me out of his house when he could not persuade fifteen-year-old me to hide his infidelity.

Nevertheless, what my father said makes sense. Andrew Owens was generous and loving. I know Dash wasn’t lying when he said his father gave him everything he ever asked for.

Except the vault combination.

Loyalty to Leonie would reasonably have led my grandfather to keep it concealed. Even from his own son.

You girls are risking your lives.

I feel cold stealing over me, the theory forming in my head robbing the warmth from my skin.

“Abigail, you said you hacked Leonie’s medical records,” I say, effortfully maintaining calm. “Can you hack Andrew Owens’s?”

Abigail’s eyes widen.

She understands where I’m going instantly, and it leaves her looking smug. “And you thought you wouldn’t need a hacker on this job.”

She returns to the couch, where she sits next to Grace and pulls her computer from her bag, her eyes razor-edged with focus. Everyone watches her unsmiling dance of keystrokes.

“I need to find what hospital he was seen at, which shouldn’t be hard since he was a prominent CEO.

They would have probably disclosed his decline to shareholders, either when he died or—okay, yes,” she says, nodding.

“ Wall Street Journal , New York Times stories. Oh, convenient. It’s the same hospital as Leonie’s doctors.

I already left myself a backdoor into their data—”

Her keystrokes continue.

Heart pounding, I wait.

My sister’s fingers cease.

“Yes,” she says. Her calm is genuine now. The contentment of victory. “Here it is.”

“Olivia, what is it you’re thinking?” Jackson asks. Nervousness hums in his voice.

“Something that could explain everything,” I reply. “I hope I’m wrong, though.” Not my most reassuring leadership moment, I guess. Oh well.

Everyone gathers close to Abigail, circling her computer.

I don’t want to announce my guess—I don’t want to look doubtful and heartless if I’m off.

Abigail opens three PDFs in front of us, scans of paper medical charts and certificates covered with doctors’ handwriting, and one electronic summary.

We’re committing, like, dozens of HIPAA violations right now.

“Admitted to long-term care in 2014 for sepsis after pneumonia,” Abigail summarizes. “Oh—”

She hesitates in incredibly unfair suspense.

“What?” I prompt impatiently.

“He was… improving.” Abigail’s unease unsettles me. It’s like nothing I’ve ever heard in my sister’s voice. She elaborates, reading on. “His doctor made a note that she was going to recommend discharging him home with private care. But he passed away before that happened.”

I say nothing.

I hope I’m wrong. I really hope I’m wrong.

“Was there an autopsy?” Tom asks. From his chilly demeanor, I know he’s the first member of my crew who grasps my theory.

Abigail’s cursor moves. Everyone waits. Abigail clicks—new PDFs come on-screen—

“Autopsy declined by family,” she says quietly.

The room is silent.

In the cold of the castle, I reckon with my mistake. It wasn’t incorporating Abigail into my crew, nor permitting Thomas to exploit Jackson’s jealousy. It wasn’t opposing Leonie, or even speaking to my father. No.

With the information Abigail has provided, I realize my error was underestimating just how dark winter in Volenvell could get.

Owens Family Rule #3.

Expect the worst. Then expect even worse.

Deonte ventures to clarify. “You can’t seriously be thinking…”

There’s no use concealing my suspicions now. Now that the conclusion is inescapable, like the cold invading our coats. I say what I know everyone is realizing.

“He was killed.”

I’m surprised to find tears pricking my eyes. I didn’t expect instantaneous pain. Fear, yes. But grief comes to me like a thief in the night.

I remember Andrew Owens’s funeral. The private cemetery in Pennsylvania.

The reception in the house I’d come to cherish.

My mother’s hand never leaving mine. Dash’s poor mood—even at seven years old, I knew I shouldn’t provoke him.

Now I wonder if Dash knew no other way of dealing with grief of his own.

I clench my eyes closed, obliterating the watery record of my hurt.

When I open them, I refocus on what the revelation means for the heist. The logical development comes easily. “Leonie knows,” I say. “This has to be how she’s drawing the killer out.”

“Through the vault. Because two people knew the combination and one is dead.” Grace completes my reasoning.

The vault. While Grace is right, the reminder of Volenvell’s metal heart puts me on edge. I’ve compared the vault to the Owens family who cast me out, the family Abigail and I have infiltrated now.

Knowing what we know of my grandfather’s death, I see it differently.

We’re not pounding on the doors from outside. We’re locked in.

“Whoever killed Andrew,” Abigail surmises, “took the combination?”

“That’s what Leonie thinks,” I reply. “If we trust Dash’s information, which I grudgingly do, then Andrew didn’t give it willingly to someone.”

My grandmother’s cunning movements once more make sense. Unlike everything else, it doesn’t surprise me. The empress of Volenvell has had ten years to consider who claimed her ex-husband’s life. Ten years to design the perfect ruse.

“If someone killed him for the combination,” I continue, “they had a motive. Maybe they wanted their inheritance early, or maybe they wanted more.…”

My throat closes down around the words.

“What if there’s more than gold in that vault?” Tom muses. “Something worth much more than millions?”

“It means Abigail was right.” I recompose myself. “This is a trap. If they haven’t gotten in yet, they’ll have to be coming now, before Leonie empties everything out.”

I return to the windows. Outside, white cliffs plunge down, the ominous face of Volenvell’s isolation.

“Leonie’s not trying to catch a thief,” I say. “She’s trying to catch a killer.”