Seventeen
WHAT’S UP, AMANDA?”
Kevin’s question echoes up the stairwell. I close my eyes, furiously searching my mind for fixes. My heart leaps into my mouth. McCoy has followed in pursuit of Kevin down the stairs, leaving only me and Tom. I can practically hear phantom a cappella ringing in my ears, reminding me of impending failure.
I pull Tom close. “Go outside. Get in position,” I whisper, nearly frantic. “Wait for my signal. This is going to be fast and sloppy.”
Exactly how I wanted my heist résumé to read.
“Okay, but how—” Tom starts.
I cut him off. “I’ll figure it out.”
With no one to play to, he drops his performance entirely. I doubt even his acting prowess could quite cover the dread I find in his eyes. While I did not need another reminder of how mine is not the only fate depending on this job, I have one in his ashen demeanor. I respect how, unlike others of us, Tom’s motivation for joining my crew exists solely in shrewd impulsivity and lust for finery. But now that means he’s realizing he’s wagered everything for nothing except his own fearsome pride.
He heads out the door, glancing warily over his shoulder.
I don’t hesitate to descend the steps into the theater. I honestly have no idea what I’ll find.
McCoy waits in the doorway, his expression drawn with panic. I charge in and immediately notice Kevin reclined on the couch. Amanda, standing up as if she’s stretching her legs, looks… kind of bored.
She shoots McCoy a glance. “Can I go now? Is the threat gone?” she asks. Her voice gives no indication she knows the danger is fabricated. She just doesn’t care.
“No, you can’t,” McCoy musters.
Kevin’s eyebrows rise. “Threat?” he repeats. He looks to me, lightly indignant. “Olivia, were you threatening my sister?”
I pause. “Of course not,” I say when nothing else comes.
“Great,” Kevin replies, laying his relief on heavily. “Amanda, you can go now.”
His sister eyes him disinterestedly. “You’re being weird,” she states.
“Or you can stay,” he offers. “Want to smoke with us? And watch Kung Fu Panda?”
Amanda’s whole face scrunches up in disgust. “Ew. No.”
She walks out. As she passes me, I consider grabbing her. Okay, consider may understate the reality. I feel my fingers itching, my mind roaring to reassert order. Instead, I restrain myself. I’m not a violent person—especially not in the presence of witnesses—and I won’t upend my resolve not to put Amanda in my vendetta’s line of fire.
Kevin doesn’t move from his position on the couch. I think fast. Every minute in here, I find myself fending off discomfort I can’t quite place, until I realize—it’s because I haven’t set foot in this room since I moved out. With my visits relatively restrained to dinners, I haven’t had reason.
The underground theater is not exactly the local IMAX, with rows upon rows of recliners in the enormous dark. Nevertheless, it’s nice. The low couches provide comfortable seating for fifteen-ish people, more if you want to get cozy. The projector mounted to the ceiling is state of the art. The screen occupies one entire wall.
I don’t have many fond memories of the room. Finding my dad watching Comedy Central in here nearly every night when my mom would have me fetch him for dinner. Movie nights with classmates, where the pretense of watching whatever cult classic we decided on would devolve into everyone either hooking up or distracted on their phones.
Even so, the pull of the past lingers, reminiscences like whispers past closed doors. I decide I can harness them. Hold them hostage. Use the reminder of how wholly this place was ripped out of my life, consigned to memory. I can sharpen myself with the loss.
I press the anger in deep. I push myself.
Kevin.Inspiration strikes with wonderful immediacy. He’s Mitchum’s kid, too, and we have him alone in the very room where we were just holding our intended hostage. He wants to party with me? Perfect. I’ll watch the first fifteen minutes of whatever he wants while McCoy places the ransom call. Kevin won’t even know we’ve “kidnapped” him. The problem is the solution.
“You know what?” I say, recasting my demeanor. The daughter showing off her expensive home. I pull on the role with ease. “All right. You want to watch a movie? Why not?”
I walk forward, looking for the remote. Kevin doesn’t move, his gaze following me into the low-lit room. Then he crosses his legs in relaxed satisfaction.
“Let’s talk business, Owens,” he says.
I feel my eyebrows rise. Reading Kevin’s expression, I hope for wavering weakness or feigned certainty—or even self-consciousness over the drama of his opener.
I find none. Kevin Webber watches me like the high school Godfather. You come to me on the day of your father’s wedding!
It keeps my gaze on Kevin, unflinching. I wait, refusing to prompt him.
“You had my sister down here. Why?” he asks. Without waiting for me to answer, he goes on. “You wanted something from her.”
I shrug one shoulder. “Not from her,” I say.
Kevin nods, evaluating the information. “I eavesdropped on your conversation,” he continues lightly. “Or some of it. Paper codes in a safe…,” he repeats.
I say nothing, furious. I put Cass on speakerphone, I realize, and I did it out of concern for McCoy, who was losing his shit. In the surprise of Kevin’s entry, I hadn’t even contemplated what he might have heard. It’s damning proof of what compassion gets me.
Kevin’s eyes light up. He flings his arms up, forming a headrest with interlocked fingers. “Of course!” he replies. “My sister goes missing in a flimsy security risk, and meanwhile all of you are discussing getting into a safe,” he recites the pieces. “You were going to ransom something from my dad,” he concludes.
I stare. I neither confirm nor deny. I’m a statue in fake eyelashes.
“I want in,” Kevin says.
“No,” I reply immediately.
Biggest possibleno in the entire universe, I don’t say, in the interest of poise. I’ve never uttered a no I’ve felt this deeply.
Kevin pouts. “Come on, I’m a way better kidnap-ee than Amanda!”
McCoy interjects from the doorway. “Hold on.” He walks into the room, flanking me. “Are you volunteering to be kidnapped?”
“Is it technically kidnapping if I consent?” Kevin counters. He’s gone from Godfather to Socrates in fifteen seconds flat, looking as if he very much enjoys the rhetorical deftness of his query.
“I mean, yes,” McCoy replies, frowning. “You’re a minor.”
“Okay, well, whatever,” Kevin says, undeterred. “I’m volunteering. Just give me a cut of whatever you’re extorting my father for. I’ll earn it, I promise. Amanda wouldn’t have put on a show. She’s unfazed by this shit. Whereas I’m happy to act very scared,” he offers proudly. “I can pretend you’re breaking my fingers or pulling out my teeth.”
“God no,” I say.
He shrugs. “I’m very convincing. I watch lots of movies.”
I hit him with my harshest glare. I’m remembering he plays goalie in lacrosse, which is weirdly perfect. The position entails waiting, waiting, waiting, and more waiting, until one important moment. Right now, Kevin Webber understands his moment has come.
“Absolutely not,” I say slowly.
He looks around expansively, pausing, I’m guessing, for emphasis. “I’m sorry, but do you have a choice?” he asks. He’s matching my pace on purpose. “Your preferred hostage is probably doing shots at the bar by now.” His expression changes. While his cheerful features haven’t reached pleading, they’re close. “I’m an excellent businessman. I’ll negotiate for you.”
While I’m not very convinced of his negotiating prowess, I hate how reasonable the rest of his point is. I’m weighing my response when my phone vibrates.
I need to check the message. New calculations scribble themselves on the crowded walls of my mind. Kevin heard me talking to Cass. He knows no one in this room has a voice that matches Cass’s, which means he already knows I have a phone.
I pull it out of my bag. Predictably, Kevin’s eyes round, smug. I ignore him for the moment, reading the screen swiftly.
Queen
What’s going on? The Nassoons are on their final song.
I grimace despite my gratitude for Cass’s update. Of course, she hacked the director’s email and found the set list.
I don’t have forever to make this decision. Either I give up everything or I work with Kevin.
Putting my hand on my hip, I pin him with the kind of look I usually reserve for the possums I’ve caught in our yard, rooting around in the garbage for the remains of discarded dinners.
“You are not a part of this,” I start firmly. “However, if you agree to be a hostage, I will give you five thousand dollars.”
The offer is ridiculously low given the amount we’re planning on stealing. Especially to someone like Kevin, it’ll mean next to nothing. I’m familiar enough with Berkshire kids’ recreational weekends to know five thousand dollars won’t get you very far. When you’re hopping over to Italy or Ibiza on impromptu friend-cations every long weekend or visiting the Louis Vuitton store for retail therapy, five thousand is nothing. It’s a starting place, one I’m willing to negotiate.
“I’m in,” Kevin says instantly.
I close my mouth. Recovering, I smile.
Kevin Webber leans forward on the couch, rubbing his hands together with excitement. The world’s happiest hostage. It really isn’t helping my misgivings about cutting him in.
Kevin Webber, I remind myself, who just pointed out I have no options. Kevin Webber, who upset my precise schedule like chucking a grenade into the heirloom grandfather clock in the foyer upstairs. Kevin, who is the only cog I can fit into The Plan’s faltering machinery.
Who is, unfortunately, right where I wish I didn’t need him.
I swipe open my phone, where I fire off the text the thread is waiting for.
King
Go