Fifteen
INOD. WORDLESSLY, MCCOY OPENS THE DOOR.
We step inside. The den is empty, as expected.
In fact, my dad’s recreation room is comically in opposition to our designs. If I’m making myself into the stereotype of the ditzy daughter, this room casts my father in the role of the frivolous man-child effortlessly.
Wall-mounted screens host video game systems vintage and modern. The pool table in the center of the room pairs marvelously with the bench press against the wall, its presence inexplicable given the extensive gym elsewhere in the house. Leather couches complete the tasteless execution of male-pattern indulgence.
When the door is closed, I look to McCoy. “Is she here?”
“She’s… detained,” he says stiffly.
I raise my eyebrows in light incredulity. “Detained? Or kidnapped?” I press him. I can’t permit caginess or errors of omission. Not here, not now. Detained in the restroom, puking because she’s downed copious quantities of champagne? Detained hitting on cousin Finn or some damn thing?
Or detained because McCoy kidnapped her, as I very precisely ordered?
The question isn’t low stakes. In fact, it’s exactly the opposite.
Kidnapping Amanda Webber is the most important part of The Plan.
I can’t ransom the combination to the safe from Mitchum Webber without the leverage of his daughter. It’s the whole reason McCoy was recruited. He could pose as security and lead Amanda into the house under the guise of an anonymous threat to her without having to resort to measures that might traumatize her or draw attention. Simple.
“I’m really uncomfortable with that language,” McCoy says, looking fretful.
I frown. “What language? The K word? That’s literally what this is. You’re the one who instilled in me the importance of words, Pawn. Now,” I say as if I’m McCoy himself, lecturing freshmen who didn’t do their reading, “did you or did you not kidnap Amanda Webber?”
He swallows. “I did,” he confirms miserably. “She’s downstairs in the theater. She found a Nintendo Switch on the couch in here and took it down with her. I gave her water and a tray of hors d’oeuvres, the lobster mac and cheese puffs, so I don’t think she’s distressed. She doesn’t even know she’s been detained.”
I level him a look.
“Kidnapped!” he corrects. “She doesn’t know she’s been kidnapped.”
Tom giggles behind me. I can’t blame him. I would laugh at our despondent kidnapper, too, if I weren’t trying to exhibit impressive leadership.
“Good,” I say.
One could potentially wonder if I feel guilty for kidnapping Amanda.
I do not.
She’s in the home theater with a Switch and lobster puffs, missing the Nassoons’ overlong set list. From where I’m standing, she’s coming out of today a winner. In fact, from the inception of today’s kidnapping component, I was rigid in my resolve that no harm or fear would come to Amanda Webber. I’m vengeful, not vicious. I’m crossing off people who’ve crossed me. Amanda Webber isn’t one of them.
If anything, I feel remorse for Mr. McCoy’s discomfort. I’ll simply encourage him to unwind in a lavish wellness resort with the fortune he’ll make today.
I glance to the stairs leading down into the theater, chosen specifically for its private entrance. There’s only one way in and out of the theater, and it’s through the den. It allows Amanda to remain contained while giving us a private space nearby to make the ransom call without her overhearing—or, more important, even seeing me. Once we have the combination to the safe, McCoy will open the door at the bottom of this stairwell and tell Amanda the threat has been cleared and she’s free to return to the party.
McCoy, however, is clearly not reassured by the harmlessness of his job. He collapses onto the leather couch. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he says to himself. “I’m an educator. Not a… kidnapper.” He still struggles to get the word out.
“Are you actually, like, employed as an educator, though?” Tom asks. He walks around the room, looking at my dad’s collection of framed nineties movie posters, morally unbothered by our hostage. As he should be.
McCoy looks up. “I have some job leads. But if I get caught as a kidnapper, I’ll never even get another teaching interview again.”
“McCoy, focus,” I demand, dropping the code name in the interest of reaching him. He looks about one shallow breath away from a panic attack. “Remember why we’re here. What are we doing?”
McCoy nods, struggling to center himself.
“Revenge,” he says.
I notice Tom frown in confusion I don’t have time to dispel. When I first met with Peter McCoy, I had in mind the motive I would play, chosen like a card from the shitty hand I was dealt. Luxury? Desperation? No. Not with McCoy.
Strictly speaking, Mr. McCoy was fired from Berkshire Prep for… a parent complaint. Less delicately, my dad had him fired. McCoy gave me a B and refused to change the grade after Dash called to complain.
I heard the whole story from McCoy when news hit the school he was being “removed.” I went to his classroom the first passing period I could, heart in my throat, intuiting my father was responsible. McCoy explained everything. How he told my father my B in English was something to be proud of, not something to call to complain about, and how the fact that he was trying to change my grade would hurt my self-esteem far more than achieving a grade he deemed unsuitable. “You earned that B. I was proud of that B,” McCoy said to me. “I still am.”
I can’t help smiling a little even now, remembering it. Mr. McCoy was my favorite teacher.
When I met him in the Starbucks in his neighborhood in The Plan’s early development, I figured I would need to feel him out, assess the strength of his hatred of my father, and proceed with patience into the idea of revenge.
I swiftly realized I would not have to. McCoy was, in his words when we first met, having an existential crisis.
He looked it, haggard and haunted. My father was far from the first parent who’d wrenched McCoy’s educational goals with their own narcissism and self-interest, he shared with me. And with every changed grade, every censored lesson plan, McCoy lost his faith in his work, his direction. He’d struggled for years, he admitted, feeling his life’s purpose eviscerated by the whims of vapid manipulators like my father.
He wanted revenge. Just not only against Dash Owens.
He has a radical vigor for the idea of shaking a society like the high-class, low-morals one he encountered in his previous employment. If stealing from my father was one strike against Dash’s wealthy world, Peter McCoy was in.
“Revenge,” I repeat.
“Don’t think of it like kidnapping,” Tom chimes in. “Think of it like unauthorized detention.”
McCoy stands. “You’re right.” He squares his shoulders with conviction I remember from his powerful Catcher in the Rye lecture. It’s kind of great, watching his renewed zeal. “Let’s get this goddamn revenge going.”
I grin, and not only out of the unexpected delight of hearing him swear. In fact, McCoy’s willingness to join me meant more than getting who I needed for the kidnapping. When I explained the full story, the situation my mom and I were in, I’d noticed the same righteous fury fill his eyes.
It had felt unexpectedly like the validation I needed in days where I could find so little. What happened to me was awful. I deserved the rage I felt.
With McCoy reinvigorated, I face Tom. “Knight,” I say, nodding to the door. “Find Mitchum. Get him alone. Ask about internships at his firm.”
Tom receives my request with instant focus. “New character,” he replies. In the next moments, the change I watch come over him is almost eerie in its subtlety. He looks to the floor, then back up, his demeanor altered in exact incremental deviations. “Thomas Pham, high school senior and future lawyer,” he introduces himself.
He walks up to McCoy, his gait gliding and eager, and holds out his hand.
“Thomas. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Tom says, his voice changed into overachiever schmooze. “My hobbies include LinkedIn and acting like I understand the stock market. Ask me about my thoughts on crypto.”
“Perfect,” I confirm.
“You remind me of everyone I had to write college recommendation letters for,” McCoy concurs. “You’d fit right in at Yale.”
“Ha,” Tom says, dropping into his own register. “God no.”
“On your way,” I remind him. “Keep Mitchum talking until the drop. Alone,” I emphasize. “I’ll give Rook the signal to look for you.”
I pull out my phone and text Deonte three emojis in three separate texts. The chef, the champagne glasses, and the phone. He doesn’t need to read them. Communicating The Plan doesn’t hinge on iMessage pictography. The signal is in the number of messages so crew members don’t need to get their phones out. Three vibrations for Phase Three.
Of course, I can’t help having fun with my choice of emojis. I feel like I’m playing modernized Clue. The chef. At the champagne welcome. With the iPhone. Messages sent, I return my phone to my clutch.
Or I’m about to. Instead, it rings.
Not out loud, of course—no ringers was rule number one. I feel the phone’s repeated vibrations in my hand, worry shooting into me. Rule number two was no calling unless immediately necessary.
Queen is displayed on the caller ID. It’s Cass. “What?” I say into the phone, perfunctory.
She doesn’t hesitate. “Security problem,” she informs me.
“Okay.” My palms start to sweat.
“On the comms I’m hearing them discuss positioning during the ceremony. They’re allocating fewer guys outside, not wanting them in photos—Maureen’s demands, I’m guessing—and more inside the house. For… heightened security of the house’s valuables,” Cass explains. “They’re forming a, quote-unquote, walking perimeter around your father’s study.”
I say nothing, contemplating. Not surprised, exactly—while I did not anticipate precisely the concern she’s raised, Cass’s role was designed to incorporate moments exactly like this. Until she is needed to distribute the money from Dash’s account, her job is ongoing surveillance of wedding security, with her proximity in the van important for accessing Millennium’s localized network. I knew security surprises exactly like this one would require improvisation.
Nonetheless, the problem she’s presented is inconvenient. My entrance into the study—and the safe—during the ceremony is a key step in The Plan. “Okay. Okay,” I say. Facts first, I decide. “When? Have the guards gone inside yet?”
In the den, McCoy has evidently heard the low hum of nervousness in my voice. While Tom watches me neutrally, our kidnapper has started to fidget. “What’s going on? It’s—um, Queen, right?”
“Not yet,” Cass starts to say in my ear. “They’re—”
“Oh, shit. Shit.” McCoy has once more started panicking, jumping to conclusions. He slicks his hair fervently, looking close to puking. “Please,” he implores me. “Just tell me how bad it is.”
“Wait,” I interrupt Cass, unable to have overlapping conversations. “Pawn, it’s going to be fine—”
“Can you put her on speaker?” McCoy pleads.
I’m tired of this impromptu game of telephone. “Queen,” I say, taking pity on poor McCoy. “I’m putting you on speaker.”
I hit the icon, and her sharp voice fills the room. “They’re not inside yet,” she says. “I see guards posted at the entrance… one in the restroom… and the rest outside for the welcome toasts.”
McCoy exhales, realizing we have not, in fact, gotten caught.
“Okay,” I repeat. “I’ll… message you. I’ll figure it out. Later.” Every minute right now counts. This is a post-kidnapping problem. “I just need a new way into the study,” I summarize.
“Yes,” Cass confirms. “And when you get the paper codes out of the safe, you’ll have to move fast. Like, fast-fast.”
“Of course,” I reply. “And thanks.”
Cass hangs up.
Walking perimeter. Heightened security.I shake off the words, having meant what I said. The champagne toasts are winding down, and the upcoming phase is critical. I rehearse the next steps in my head, knowing they’ll require unique precision.
It doesn’t daunt me, exactly. I feel… I wouldn’t know how to explain it. My heart is pounding in the best way, my veins rushing with the visceral thrill of the cogs moving in the invisible machine I’ve designed. While its mechanics came from me, they’re operating outside me now, in the capable synchrony of my conspirators. Even the hiccup Cass has presented just feels like the next challenge to clear on our way to victory. I feel like I’m finding the new me.
Tom walks to the door. As he reaches for the handle—
The door opens from the outside.
The moment rushes into horrible focus. It’s like watching something falling to the ground, something fragile. Something precious. My fine-china plans in midair, headed for the unforgiving marble of the foyer.
With the widest smile on his face, Kevin Webber enters our kidnapping control center.
“Hey, guys, is this where the real party is happening?” he asks as if he really hopes it is. He looks around the room. “What are we doing?”
I feel everything crash to a halt.