Page 56

V OLENVELL IS IN THE EYE OF A STORM. O R SO IT FEELS AFTER THE explosion. The formal dinner was canceled, obviously, leaving staff the opportunity to repair the dungeon and the vault while everyone prepares for the New Year’s Eve party.

Perhaps in another family, tomorrow’s party would be canceled, too, given Mia’s hospitalization.

Not ours. Mia’s immediate family leave to visit my cousin in the hospital, though Hammond, his wife, and Finn intend to return late tonight, rejoining the events instead of sitting at the recuperating Mia’s side.

From the hospital, Finn texts Sofia, who passes the information to Grace, who conveys it to us that Mia will make a full recovery. She has a serious concussion and was ordered, medically, for the next several weeks, to try not to think .

The jokes are too easy for me to deign to make.

Leaving my crew to taste-test mille-feuilles and finish Puss in Boots , I depart from Volenvell with my sister on the premise of something I’ve never wanted—father-daughter time.

Miller’s Lodge juts cheerfully from the ski-resort mountainside a forty-minute descent from Volenvell. Dash chose the venue. Food, drinks, jukebox. None of that prix fixe shit , he explained over text.

We drove down separately, Dash procuring a private SUV in the unexplained way he does.

Walking into Miller’s, the contrast with Volenvell is overwhelming.

The place is an Alpine parody. Everything— everything —is made of log-cabin wood, with skis, mounted antlers, and richly colored quilts covering the walls.

The enormous dining room hosts large square tables of families resting from the nearby resort, while the stocked bar entices loud men presumably on corporate ski getaways.

Half Disneyland for Europeans, half tourist trap for Americans with culture shock.

Dash is in the back corner of the restaurant, close to the shining hardwood bar. He doesn’t stand when we enter. He doesn’t greet us when we sit.

He looks relaxed. Or he would, except for one noticeable detail. His drink remains untouched.

No, he’s only playing casual. He’s focused on the coming conversation—which he should be. While he thinks he has the upper hand on his daughters, he knows not to underestimate us.

I fold my hands in front of me. Everyone else under the high, pointed ceiling of Miller’s is enjoying the Matterhorn pastiche. Families reunited for Christmas or travel, students home from university, kids out of school.

Not the Owens-Pierce table.

“Isn’t this nice?” Dash speaks first, spurning the gravity of silence. “We should do it more often.”

“Didn’t you ban us from your house last time we were all together?” Abigail points out.

He leans back, grinning grandly. Unfortunately, discouraging Dashiell Owens only encourages him. “I didn’t say we should do it at my home,” he replies, indulging in incredulity. “Neutral territory.”

“Sure,” I return, unable to help myself. “You can bring Maureen, and Abigail and I will bring our moms. One big happy family.”

I notice Abigail press her lips together, not wanting to laugh.

Dash’s smile slips. “It’s wonderful to see you two getting along. Ganging up on me,” he replies. Despite his unhidden sarcasm, something in his voice says his fondness is real. “You know,” he continues, “I have to admit, I was wrong.”

Abigail and I exchange immediate glances. I guess sisterly instincts for parental mockery come very easily.

“You’ll have to be more specific,” I say.

Dash doesn’t register the insult. He thumbs his glass, peering into its amber contents. “I thought I was doing you a favor, separating you,” he says.

The reply steals my mirth. I didn’t expect real familial reckoning would come from our pretense of reconnection.

“I thought siblings were only ever a curse,” Dash continues.

I notice the word choice—the same as Leonie’s.

The Owens curse. “My whole life, Hammond and Elwood were at best my competitors. At worst, my enemies. I don’t love them.

They don’t love me. All we are to one another is a walking reminder that our parents’ wealth—their love—would never be divided equally among us. ”

I fight the heartstring pull of his description. I know he’s not lying. I’ve witnessed his relationship with Hammond and Elwood, not to mention how Leonie never intercedes in their infighting.

Why would she? The damage was done. Leonie knows perfectly well how separating Dash from his mother and siblings and separating Hammond and Elwood from their father had doomed them to resent one another’s very existence.

I steel myself, remembering Dash isn’t capable of selflessness or self-reflection. My father, earnestly looking out for his daughters when he concealed the child he conceived while cheating on my mom?

How honorable. It’s humorous in the dark way father-daughter time with Dash is.

I don’t need to speak for him to nod, as if he’s hearing my thoughts. One of his very worst gifts.

“Obviously, I had selfish motives in keeping Abigail a secret,” he concedes. “But, well, I genuinely thought you both would be happier without each other. It… surprised me to see that maybe siblings could be something else. Something good.”

Something good.

I feel guilty, under the warm lighting of Miller’s. I remember how, leaving the wedding, I wanted Abigail in my life. I wanted friendship. Reconciliation. Sisterhood. Instead, when she pulled away from me, I withdrew into suspicion, judgment, and self-defense.

My response would have made Leonie proud. Which means it makes me sad.

I mentally note needing to apologize to her. Ooh, fun.

“To be fair,” Abigail interjects, “maybe I would hate Olivia’s guts if I’d been forced to grow up with her and listen to her music in the car or share my mansion with her.”

I roll my eyes. Playfully, of course, which Abigail’s smile says she understands.

“I doubt it,” Dash replies pleasantly. “I’ve never tried to be a good father, and yet, look—I did something right anyway. I gave you each other.”

The softness in his eyes is unrecognizable. Unimaginable, in fact. Like watching marble melt.

The reality I’ve resisted for days finally meets me full force. The man in front of us is not the Dashiell Owens who raised me.

Well, in every real sense he is—despite Kevin’s earnest wishes, we’re not in Mission: Impossible , where masks hide disguised intruders.

This is the real Dash. Just not the version of him who disdained his daughter’s every question and interest.

Is my father capable of change? Has returning here, to his hateful family, reminded him of the lonely boy he used to be? Maybe he doesn’t want to become Leonie—doesn’t want to one day announce to his broken family that he’ll be buried with his fortune.

Perhaps he fears the labyrinth. Like me. Like Mia. Perhaps he understands legacy is something to be fled, not chased.

I remind myself why we’re here. He’s not helping us out of the goodness of his heart. He’s dealmaking. Negotiating. He wants the cuff links. Whatever has changed, Dash’s first instinct for self-preservation hasn’t.

“How like you to take all the credit,” I reply, unamused.

Dash looks up from his drink. “You’re here, aren’t you? Meeting with me. Together,” he notes proudly, glancing to Abigail. When he straightens up, professional impatience returns to his features. “Which, speaking of, I assume you have a plan to get Mia’s cuff links?”

Finally. I lean forward.

“Say we did,” I reply. “What’s to guarantee that when we give them to you, you won’t give the combination to anyone else?”

“Trust?” Dash offers.

“Like the thing you stole from to embezzle your family’s money? No thank you,” I say, unable to help the wordplay.

Dash’s eyes narrow. Abigail laughs.

“No, really,” my sister says. “There’s no way we’re trusting you. This could all be your elaborate revenge for the wedding heist.”

“ Wedding heist ,” Dash repeats emphatically. “Nice ring to it. I am still annoyed about that, admittedly. Okay, what do you propose?” He repositions on his chair, the well-worn leather creaking with his movement.

“You only get the cuff links when we’ve successfully pulled off our heist,” I say, “and every single one of our crew is safely out of Volenvell.”

Dash nods, contemplative. I refuse to be distracted by pride, even if my father considering my offer as if I’m one of his investors or executives is…

No. It’s nothing. Opportunity. Nothing more.

“And why should I trust you to carry out your end? You did rob me once already,” he points out.

“You can’t. But it’s your only shot at getting the immunity you need,” I say. “And you’re going to need it.”

Dash’s drink is halfway to his lips. He pauses, eyes locking on me. Lowering the glass, he invites me in silence to elaborate.

“I believed you when you said you didn’t kill Grandpa,” I say evenly. “When you said the Knives ordered you to deny the autopsy.”

“Believed, past tense, is it?” He narrows his gaze on me.

“I’ve had a couple of theories about his murder, of course.

” I fold my napkin in my lap as if this is casual dinner conversation.

“You could have killed him for your inheritance. Or someone else, likely the Knives, could have killed him to get into the vault. Except no one has gotten into the vault. Leonie’s trap doesn’t seem to be working. That leaves one more possibility.”

Dash leans forward on the table. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I got all my worst qualities from you,” I reply.

I mean it scathing, but it comes out closer to humorous.

Dash’s lips twist in annoying amusement.

“Leonie stole something from the club years ago. They’re here to get it back.

If Andrew helped Leonie steal from the Knives, they would have killed him for disobedience. ”

Our father nods. The Miller’s jukebox chooses now to change into an up-tempo hit for our discussion of the hidden organization’s murderous intimidation measures. “Sounds likely,” Dash says.

“Except.”

He frowns.