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T HE HELICOPTER-TO-PRIVATE-PLANE-TO-PRIVATE- SUV MORNING IS exhausting. Norway’s snowy charms don’t come logistically easily.

I hate the relief I feel being away from my crew. Something is seriously wrong when I would prefer sitting silently in one of Leonie’s temperature-controlled Range Rovers with Mia and Sofia over spending time with Deonte and Kevin.

One question has followed me to Norway, worsening my mood further. Did my father murder my grandfather?

I won’t let the possibility consume me. My focus is the ring. Whatever else I encounter here, I intend to leave Norway with my heist secure.

The cars caravan down the winding road into the frozen valley.

With the fjord’s glacial water surrounding us, the view surpasses even snowy Switzerland.

Gazing out the tinted windows with my earbud-wearing cousins, I can’t help imagining how Jackson would have marveled over the sparkling contours and stone-speckled icy peaks.

Even my weariness momentarily vanishes when we reach the stunning lake where Leonie’s inn sits. The cold water mirrors the mountaintops, their sharp points inverted in the glassy surface. Winter wind sweeps over the snowscape and ripples gently over the sky-colored water.

The road continues up to the property, where I realize “inn” describes Leonie’s outpost ungenerously.

The Sonnfjord Inn is part lodge, part modern compound. Polished metal contours give the inn geometric definition while clean wooden walls clash with huge panels of glass, protruding from the structure like crystals jutting from the hotel’s heart.

Setting foot inside, I understand the importance of the property to Leonie. It’s Volenvell’s opposite. Light, luxurious, sleek. The European flourishes only emphasize the comforting livability of the inn.

Why doesn’t she spend her time here? I find myself wondering. Oh, wait, yeah, less intimidating for the family she hates. Wouldn’t want us getting comfortable, now, would she?

Needless to say, I’m not not glad we’re here.

The tour reveals the many magnificent features of the Sonnfjord Inn’s minimalist premises.

Norwegian farm-to-table restaurant, snowshoe racks for outdoor excursions.

Everyone ooh s and aah s over the spa, where slanted windows span the walls overlooking the glistening fjord, connecting in sharp diagonals like the edges of gemstones.

Steam rises from the heated pool in front of the clear vista.

The feature, Leonie declares with uncharacteristic pride, is why she purchased the property.

When the tour ends, we’re shown to our quarters. I’m incredibly relieved to learn the inn’s capacity permits me my own room, free from Mia. Entering the room, I’m greeted by cushioned contemporary furniture and lake views.

On the bed’s comforter, I find a printed itinerary of the day’s events. The schedule invites us to a family lunch upcoming shortly.

I ignore the scheduled summons. I may not have had decades to get to know my grandmother, but I’ve observed my mark carefully over the past few days. One fact I’ve learned is our hostess does not enjoy dining with her family. Who does, honestly?

Instead of heading to the restaurant, I put on my swimsuit.

Retracing the tour takes me to the spa, where the heated stone floor welcomes my bare feet. I walk out to the pool deck.

I’m not the only person here, sure enough.

Leonie opens her eyes when the door to the deck closes. Then she smirks.

“Clever girl,” she comments.