Page 3

Q UINN R HODES—MY FATHER’S FORMER ASSISTANT, THE PUSHOVER who’d once helped hide Dash’s infidelities and whose firing I exploited during the wedding heist—shifts uncomfortably in front of me.

“Quinn,” I say sweetly. “What a coincidence you’re here.”

He frowns. Petulant, he sits in surrender, saying nothing.

Fine.

“How have you been? Still unemployed?” I heap pretend pity on words I’m enjoying very much. “Let me guess. Dash put the word out not to trust you, and then no one would hire you. You had no choice but to come back to him begging for your old job.”

“I’m not his assistant anymore,” Quinn retorts, his voice whiny.

I smile, delighted to have levered the reply out of him. Of course professional insecurity was his weakness. “What… are you exactly?” I inquire. “The adult man my father hired to spy on his teenage daughter?”

He grimaces. “Don’t make it sound like that.”

With wide, innocent eyes, I look from Quinn to Deonte. “Did I say anything untrue?” I ask.

“It’s a bad look, dude,” Deonte concurs.

Frustrated, Quinn gestures indignantly in my direction. “I wouldn’t even have to be here if you just spoke to your father,” he protests. “He only wants to make sure you’re going to uphold your end of the deal.”

Our deal. It’s putting it… politely. Technically, I blackmailed my father.

When I left my father’s wedding with his money, our agreement involved my promising not to reveal Dash’s embezzlement from the Owens family trust. While we no longer speak, for obvious reasons, my father has realized I’m headed into the midst of the very people I pledged not to inform.

His family, who he’s been stealing from.

Unable to speak to me directly, he’s resorted to the pathetic measure of having me followed.

Which doesn’t work for me. While I’m executing this week’s heist, I won’t have my father’s watchman reporting everything I’m doing home to Rhode Island.

However, Quinn’s confession has surprised me. “Really?” I inquire. “That’s it? Dash isn’t out for some revenge of his own? Sending you here so you can spy on me?”

I mean, honestly , I chide the imaginary Dash in my head. No vengeful countermove for me stealing your money? It’s like we’re not even related.

Quinn shrugs. “Can’t get caught if you don’t do anything wrong,” he points out.

Now I have to smile.

“Quinn,” I say, “as you’re about to learn, that’s very not true.”

Confusion descends over my father’s assistant or spy or whatever he is. He does not have the chance to clarify what I mean. Instead, knocking sounds on our door, urgent and demanding. And right on time.

“Whoops,” Quinn says to me, weakly confrontational. “Shouldn’t sneak into places you don’t belong, Olivia.”

I don’t reply. I don’t have to. In seconds, I’m going to ruin this guy’s day for the second time.

Deonte opens the cabin door, revealing an attendant, a security officer—and Kevin Webber.

He’s dressed in indulgently showy winter wear, brands on display as if they sponsor him. The son of my father’s horrid lawyer, Kevin Webber has worn Polo and Prada his entire life. On his boyish features is something uncommon for the notoriously difficult-to-discourage Kevin Webber—utter dismay.

“Search him,” Kevin demands plaintively.

He points at Quinn, who watches these proceedings openly perplexed.

“It’s a gold Panerai Luminor, monogrammed with Kevin Webber ,” Kevin complains.

The security officer reaches forward.

“What is going on here?” Quinn demands, startled. He stands from his seat. “You can’t just search me.”

The security man regards him with dispassionate impatience. “Very well,” he replies in French-accented English. “We will have to request you to remain on the train until police can search you, sir.”

Quinn’s mouth falls open. I understand his dismay—he was really hoping I would end up expelled from the first-class cabin, and instead security has descended on… him.

Then defensiveness flares in Quinn, the perfect imitation of my father’s ugliest moods. It’s no surprise. People like Quinn Rhodes, in his wrinkled office shirt under his coat, spending his December 26 on his employer’s wretched whims, will always look to role models for their own worst instincts.

“I will not be missing my stop. This is ridiculous,” he replies. “I don’t even know what I’m being accused of, but fine. Search me now if you must.”

The security officer obliges. He pats down Quinn. He reaches into Quinn’s front coat pocket—

And while the entire group looks on, he produces a gold watch.

It shines under the cabin lights. The officer reads from the inscription. “Kevin George Washington Webber.”

“That’s me!” Kevin cries out.

I force myself not to smile. Kevin is vying for the Oscar with his performance.

Instead, I’ll admit, he has emerged as the MVP of our kickoff sting operation.

The Panerai Luminor the inspector holds, gaudy in gold, is real, and genuinely valuable.

Kevin’s willingness to part even momentarily with the forty-grand watch was nothing short of admirable.

Of course, in the months since the wedding heist forged my unlikely friendship with Kevin Webber, I’ve found he always gives everything he has, even to extracurricular activities of questionable legality.

Quinn’s eyes pop. In the instant of realization, his gaze flashes to me. “You—they—set me up,” he gasps. “These teenagers don’t even have tickets for this carriage. They planted this on me.”

In reply, Jackson reaches into his own coat pocket.

He produces, for the attendant’s inspection, four first-class tickets for this very cabin. The ones we purchased simultaneously with our seats for the main compartment, knowing exactly where our operation needed to start—and where it needed to end.

“I’m afraid you’re the one who shouldn’t be here, Quinn,” I say while the inspector grasps Quinn’s upper arm with unambiguous force. “I wonder, do you get one phone call here in Switzerland? Do you think my dad will pick up?”

Quinn’s mouth moves noiselessly. The officer starts hauling him from the cabin.

“Have a nice New Year’s,” I say softly.

The security man will escort the hapless Mr. Rhodes to some detention spot on board and, when we reach our next station, likely to some municipal Swiss jail.

I’m sure my father will make his legal problems disappear eventually, but Quinn will remain safely out of my affairs for the rest of the week.

“We’re very sorry, Miss Owens,” the attendant promises me. “Perhaps complimentary beverages to apologize for this situation?”

I smile. I feel… like myself. Relaxed and excited at once, reveling in the rush of a job well done.

“That won’t be necessary,” I say.

The attendant nods and leaves us. As he does, I notice the dark-suited man watching us through the still-open door.

As if his gaze hasn’t shifted from our cabin once.

Now I inscribe him into my memory, filing the fineries of his appearance away for future reference.

Another spy? I can’t act unless I know for sure.

Deonte takes a seat in our compartment following Quinn’s departure. The coat covering his round shoulders is perfectly fitted, understatedly stylish, and undoubtedly expensive. It’s not couture like mine, though. Deonte doesn’t spend lavishly on himself.

If this week goes well, maybe he will.

“Dude!” Kevin drops down next to Deonte. “I was waving to you on the platform!”

“I saw,” Deonte replies.

Kevin kicks out his legs haphazardly. “Cold,” he comments to Deonte while he sets to refastening his gold watch. “Makes a guy wonder if we’re even friends.”

“The plan was to meet inside the train, Bishop,” Deonte replies patiently.

Kevin sits up, pleased. “So you’re saying it wasn’t personal,” he clarifies. “We are friends.”

Deonte rolls his eyes with emphatic grandeur, then raises his fist to bump with Kevin, who looks like Santa Claus himself has declared Kevin was very, very good this year.

I don’t permit myself to smile, even though I kind of want to.

Jackson does. It’s the weird effect of Kevin, I’ve noticed.

While unbearably irritating, he manages to be inexplicably lovable.

It’s part of why he’s here. It could even make him my secret weapon.

He’s not here for the fortune. He doesn’t need it.

He’s here for something more powerful and perplexing—us.

“Rook,” I greet Deonte.

“King,” he returns.

Then—only then—does Deonte smile, finally playful. Excited, even. I hope.

Not for the same reasons I am, no doubt. I don’t presume anyone matches me in the psychological-problems department. Deonte doesn’t love larceny the way I do. He has his own important motives, which is enough for me. I don’t need excitement. Only excellence.

“Well, well. It’s a party.”

The voice from the doorway is velvet. The edge is diamond sharp.

Into our midst strides Thomas Pham, who in fact had once explained to me he seeks never to walk , only to stride .

From his entrance, I would say he’s practiced, except I know he doesn’t need to.

Thomas Pham—thespian extraordinaire, more than willing to lend talents honed on the stage to my schemes—steals the spotlight wherever he goes.

Of each of us, I suspect the wedding heist money has changed Tom the least. Everyone wants money. Tom saunters and schmoozes as if he were meant for it.

His eyes fall on Jackson.

“Not bad for your first con, Jimbo,” he comments, intending patronization, and continuing in his new, very intentional pattern of getting Jackson’s name wrong.

Emphasizing Jackson’s outsider status, in more ways than one.

While I’m obviously closer with Jackson, I’ve known Tom longer.

He comes from Berkshire. From my old life.

From the luxury he still enjoys, and the luxury he insists I’m chasing in the guise of vengeance. The wealth. The power.

Combined with how Jackson only wound up involved in the wedding heist incidentally, while Tom was one of my closest collaborators—well, Tom won’t let me forget any of it.

New guy , he’s calling Jackson with every wrong name. It’s no expression of endearment.

Now Jackson’s expression matches the window view in unforgiving frost. He holds Tom’s dark gaze.

“Pawn,” he corrects without emotion.

I credit him for the response. Occupying the high road and reminding Tom that no matter what he’s code-named, I did invite Jackson into the heist, just like I invited him into my heart.

Tom smiles without warmth. “Not certain I’d advertise that nickname,” he comments.

“Olivia likes it,” Jackson replies.

I press my lips together, realizing immediately how much of a headache they’re going to cause me. In the end, it’s the piece of myself I recognize in Thomas Pham most—the jealousy. The want . Love looks good on someone like Jackson. Envy looks good on someone like Tom.

The tension in the small carriage doesn’t simmer for long, though. The strained silence ends when one of the most badass girls I have ever seen enters.

Her black hair is pulled into a tight bun.

Designer sunglasses shield her eyes from the uncompromising dazzle of sun on ice.

Her black turtleneck rises out of the collar of her black leather jacket.

She looks like she’s on her way from the runway to the boardroom.

She looks like music should play with every entrance she makes.

I expected no less.

“Crew,” I say proudly, pleased with the distraction, “meet Grace Pham.” I pause. “You may call her Queen.”