Page 31

E IGHT PONIES, IMMACULATELY GROOMED, OUTFITTED IN THE FINEST equestrian equipment in the world, stride on the frozen lake in front of us. Packed-down snow forms my family’s private polo pitch, where play has stopped.

While the rest of the riders reposition impatiently, Elwood shouts over Hammond’s protestations.

It’s the fourth foul one of my dad’s siblings has incurred halfway into the second playing period, or “chukker.” Everyone else, me included, has started wondering just how long the midmorning snow polo match is going to run.

It’s fitting, really. Only the Owens family could change the glamorous sport into endless opportunities for infighting and suspicion.

Snow polo has been part of every family visit to Volenvell. Dash, I remember, would get really into it whenever we were here. Elwood had introduced the sport to the family when she was in college and had gone with her equally wealthy friends to the championship in St. Moritz.

Of course, nearby St. Moritz would not suffice for my family. For decades, Leonie has commissioned everything required to convert the lake on the property, fifteen minutes down the mountain, into our own private pitch when the water freezes for the winter months.

Even with her resources, the extravagance is excessive. I suppose my grandmother just really likes polo.

When I was younger, I never realized how absurd it all was. The indulgence, the exclusion. A private snow polo pitch? If I wasn’t already planning to rob my family for everything they’re worth, this would convince me.

Now, the match is the perfect midweek centerpiece for Leonie’s combination celebratory-reunion-fake-death-announcement-murder-investigation.

White sunlight illuminates the snow-colored clouds.

The pitch is bordered by a black barricade, with shining goalposts polished to perfection under Otto’s scrutiny.

On horseback, players in uniform hold long mallets, which they use to fight for control of the ball.

Behind us, white-clothed tables and steaming trays of sumptuous servings from the Volenvell kitchens wait in the grand heated tent set up for brunch.

I’m seated in the spectator section with the rest of Leonie’s guests, including my friends—except Tom, who’s on the pitch, ridiculously confident on the black mare he’s riding.

Of course the Phams have had years of polo lessons.

In her winter wasteland, Leonie looks content. Her ivory coat is minimalist and well cut. In the front of the seating section, her gaze is deceptively peaceful. I feel certain she’s monitoring everything. Observing everyone.

With gameplay stalled, Jackson studies my aunt and uncle with impatient confusion.

“Okay, what is it this time?” he demands.

While polo gameplay isn’t complicated in general—one team hits the ball toward the goal, the other team tries to disrupt them and hit the ball the other way—I understand Jackson’s frustration over the multitude of highly specific fouls.

The game would start to look incomprehensible if one hadn’t, say, learned the rules while repeatedly visiting one’s family castle.

“Hammond rode too close to Elwood, keeping her from her shot on the goal,” Grace explains.

With her helmet in her lap, she makes the white polo pants and maroon uniform look right off the runway.

She spent the first chukker sitting with Sofia, murmuring together in nonchalant flirtation.

The development is decidedly favorable. Two Phams getting cozy with two of my cousins increases risk, but also increases opportunities for surveillance.

Jackson’s shoulders slump in dismay. “I don’t get this sport.”

“Honestly, it’s a sport more about the vibe,” Grace replies.

“The vibe being… rich people,” Jackson says.

He’s not wrong. Everyone not playing is dressed in expensive winter wear or luxurious furs. Heavy gemstone earrings and fifty-thousand-dollar watches gleam in the daylight.

Deonte leans forward, elbows on his knees. A running back for East Coventry High, he has followed the action on the pitch without confusion. “Kev, why aren’t you playing?”

Kevin, who like me is dressed only to watch, looks affronted.

“Not all rich people play polo, you know,” he replies. He glances down. “I’m more of a sailing guy,” he mutters.

Grace laughs. “You know,” she says, nodding to Tom, “Thomas hated our lessons until they let him name the ponies. He was, like, ten or eleven. He loved how they have different personalities. Really got him invested in the game.”

I smile.

“That’s pretty cute, not going to lie,” Kevin observes.

“I was never, like, a horse girl, but Tom?” Grace says. “Total horse boy.”

Right then, on the pitch, Tom smashes the ball through the goalposts. He raises his mallet while Grace football-claps in unreserved sibling support. Hammond and Elwood could learn a thing or two from the Phams.

Noticing his sister, Tom waves her over. Grace stands. “Hell yeah,” she says. “I haven’t played a good polo match in ages.”

In the pause in play as they reset the field after Tom’s goal, Grace replaces him on the black pony. Tom strides off the pitch to Mia, who leaps into his arms, celebrating his point as if she’s a snow polo WAG.

Our crew’s resident horse boy does, honestly, look exceptionally dashing in his polo uniform, dusted with snow. The white pants reveal every ripple of muscle in his legs. No doubt Mia’s drooling over him. Reading my mind, Jackson leans closer to me.

“Please at this moment remember that I am a varsity soccer player,” he says emphatically. “You know, a real sport.”

I laugh, pink-cheeked in the cold. “Don’t worry,” I reassure him. “Polo doesn’t really do it for me.”

Jackson looks genuinely relieved. “You don’t want to play?” he asks.

“I hardly remember how,” I reply. “I’m good here.” There’s more I don’t say. More I wouldn’t dare utter surrounded by Volenvell’s conniving guests. I know if someone really did murder my grandfather, they’re very likely nearby. Like Leonie, I’m watching everything. Everyone.

From the pitch, Hammond shouts in frustration. The Volenvell staff member who has the unenviable position of refereeing the game rides over to consult with him. Of course, Elwood joins the huddle, no doubt eager to debate.

Groans of impatience come up from other guests. I notice my relatives exhaling puffs of frost into the morning or patting cold out of gloved hands, which I understand perfectly. The weather app on my phone displays a comical one degree Fahrenheit.

Leonie is unmoved, watching with regal focus. It’s just like my grandmother to convert a spectator sport into a frozen endurance challenge for her family. “She really is stone-cold,” I can’t help commenting.

“Heart of ice,” Abigail concurs.

I have my uncompromising perseverance in common with Abigail. I wonder whether my sister shares my grudging admiration for Leonie Owens. “It’s impressive,” I venture.

“Irritatingly, yes.”

“Kind of badass,” I say.

“Yeah.”

I smile. Only momentarily, obviously. I wouldn’t want to overdo it with the sisterly companionship.

While Hammond and Elwood feud on the pitch, Leonie rises from her seat, visibly discontented with the match’s halting progress.

When she turns, her gaze falls on Abigail.

My sister freezes, wary, while Leonie comes nonchalantly right up to us.

Watching the girl whose Rhode Island home I’ve never even seen, who lived anonymously in my shadow, face down her Swiss noble family, I feel another inexplicable rush of emotion.

Protectiveness, combined with… pride. Is this sisterhood?

“You don’t look much like your father. Your expression, however—pure Dashiell,” she comments. “It’s funny how you can inherit so much from a man you hardly know.”

Abigail doesn’t drop her gaze. “I’d happily inherit more.”

Leonie smiles. “I’m pleased you accepted my invitation,” she announces. “I was hoping you would embrace the opportunity to get to know our family. Your family.”

Hushed murmurs spread down the sidelines as those near enough to hear realize who Abigail is. Admittedly, I nearly drop my phone in the packed snow. Not only has Leonie confirmed my sister’s fraught parentage to everyone, she’s… offered Abigail a welcome even I never received. I wait for—

Abigail stands.

“I’m not here for you,” she informs Leonie. “I already have what precious little family I need.”

Without hesitation, she spins, departing the seating section and ignoring our grandmother’s flashing eyes. I watch her leave, forced to concede Leonie is not the only person I sometimes find scarily impressive.

The referee’s conference with Hammond and Elwood culminates, unfortunately, in Hammond’s expulsion from the chukker. Fuming, my uncle dismounts his horse—not without slamming his mallet into the polo ball in parting frustration.

His shot sends the ball whizzing into the snow, right past young Henrik. Hammond’s furious gaze locks onto the child.

“Well, don’t just stand there !” he shouts at his nephew. “Go get it!”

Henrik starts to cry. He doesn’t hesitate to heed his uncle’s order, hurrying off to the snowbank while he wails.

I notice Jackson clench his jaw. The next moment, he’s out of his seat, clambering from the spectator section into the snow surrounding the pitch.

He approaches Henrik, who throws the ball back to the ref. Jackson nods encouragingly toward the pitch, saying something I can’t hear but looks a lot like Wow, great throw, buddy .

While I watch, my boyfriend flops directly backward into the snowbank. Laughter breaks through Henrik’s weeping as Jackson enthusiastically makes a snow angel. I make out an invitation on Jackson’s lips, and then Henrik is following his lead, dropping into the snow and forming his own snow angel.

I don’t even feel the cold. I’m smiling hard enough for my cheeks to hurt. No, polo doesn’t do it for me. This, however—

Hurried footsteps distract me from Jackson. Turning to face the tent, I find Otto hustling into the seating section, walkie-talkie in his hand. He nearly slips on the snow due to his pace or his distraction. When he reaches Leonie, he whispers something inaudible in her ear.

Leonie doesn’t respond. Either the information does not alarm her, or she has an incredible poker face. The second seems more probable, which is enough to make me pause. Leonie murmurs something in return to Otto, who nods gravely.

Curious.

I sit up, interested. It’s unlikely Otto was merely reporting the brunch buffet has run out of smoked salmon. Something has happened. I tune out the distractions of family and winter sports and Jackson and—

I don’t have to wait long.

A car pulls up close to the pitch, one of Leonie’s SUVs from the castle. The ponies rear up, startled by the interruption, hooves spraying powder. The polo game comes to a sharp stop.

Out of the shining black SUV, a lone figure emerges.

I recognize every detail of the man walking directly onto the pitch. His salt-and-pepper hair. His formidable height. His comfortable, purposeful stride. His expensive coat. His cold, cold eyes.

On the upside, I no longer feel the unforgiving weather. Not while my blood boils from the sight of my father.