Twenty-Nine
King
Meet in the garage after the ceremony.
I put away my phone after texting the chat. The estimated window is down to four minutes. I need to get out of here or risk an unplanned encounter with Reverend Arnold and his happy entourage.
I have nothing, of course. Lexi’s departure left me mere minutes for the cursory search I conduct of Dash’s office. It yields only unnerving evidence of how many cigars one man could possess. After shutting the safe, I slip out of the office unseen.
The vacant hallway leads me out onto the lawn overlooking the ocean, where the ceremony hasn’t ended. Rows of white chairs face a botanical arch in front of the glassy water. The light glitters on it like pearls of mercury. On the grounds of the Owens estate, even nature feels the irresistible need to show off.
I find Tom and Kevin seated in the back row, where I slide into the empty seat Tom’s holding for me. I earn reproachful glances from the nearest guests, which I welcome.
Or I pretend I do. In fact, on the lawn—past the white roses whose cultivation interested my mom, in front of the water where we would skip stones into the mirrored horizon—it’s unexpectedly a little much.
As I mentioned to Tom, I’m only playing the part every guest imagines is real. Olivia Owens. Heiress without a clue. The daddy’s girl whose dad didn’t want custody. But under their glares in the midst of my father’s wedding, the reality of my reputation starts to hurt. I’m the interloper? I’m the problem? I used to live here. Not them. Not the social media girls on the end of the row. Not the financiers whose Ferraris occupy the driveway.
It isn’t the indulgence of my dad and his guests’ lifestyle I’m jealous of. I’m pissed to hear Lexi’s words ringing in my head. It’s not about the money.
It’s them feeling they deserve to be here. It’s easy for them to sneer and whisper for one ugly reason—they feel like they’re worth this world, this house, this opulence, and I no longer am. The estranged. The starter family. The reject.
Under the arch, Maureen recites her vows. Clichés performed with practiced pathos. The expression on my dad’s face rubs in everything I’m feeling.
It’s funny, realizing I planned for every part of this wedding except the wedding part. The part where my father marries his new wife. Where he pushes the girl sitting in the last row—and her mother, working multiple jobs and probably feeling grateful photographs of this event won’t find their way onto her Instagram—further into the past.
I shouldn’t care. Dashiell Owens is the worst.
Shouldn’tleaves me with nothing except shame, however, when the reality is, I can’t escape the hurt of how easily my dad has moved on from me and our family. It’s vexingly inconsistent. I can get multimillion-dollar combinations out of highly paid lawyers. I can smuggle phones past private security. Why can’t I pry open the locked safe of my own heart and extract this feeling with the same precision?
He looks happy, damn him.
Maureen will want kids. When she has them, I’ll mean even less to him. Just a memory of what was. Instead of walking the hallways of this house like a guest, I’ll walk them like a ghost.
Unless.
Unless I cut a hole into my father’s life so deep that he can’t help feeling my presence every goddamn day. I want him to know it was me. I won’t need the Owens home then. When I’m done here, I’ll buy my own house with Live, Laugh, Larceny written on the wall.
Pain startles me—I glance down, noticing how hard I’m clenching gelled nails into my palm, the synthetic pink sharp in contrast to the deep red of my sore skin.
I relax them. I just need to find Abigail Pierce.
While the officiant continues the proceedings, I survey with new evaluation the judgmental guests surrounding me. Opportunities. Really, I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect venue to dig into Dash’s personal life.
I see business partners current and old. The CFOs of his media companies who do the more hands-on work for him. Rivals he keeps close. James Fontaine. Provocateur host of The Jimmy F. Hour. Walter Peterson. Eagerly stepped up into the C-suite role when my father announced the “demands of fatherhood” led him to shift into an executive chairman role. Ha. More like the demands of increasing podcast episodes per week while my mom cared for me.
I pass my eyes over famous guests. Neighbors and friends. Family.
Someoneat this wedding knows who Abigail is. I just have to find them.
Well, no. It’s more complicated than that. I can’t just orchestrate a second ransoming on the fly. Whoever it is, I’ll have to get close to them. Charm them. Convince them to tell me who Abigail is or, ideally, get them to let it slip without them even realizing it.
Logically, I’ll need to start with the people closest to him. His groomsmen.
When my father seals his new marriage with a kiss, the audience erupts into cheers. I divert my eyes, letting my gaze wander down the line of groomsmen. Jerry Hausman stands next to Mitchum, whistling while my dad—barf—dips Maureen.
Jerry was my dad’s roommate at Princeton. He’s his oldest friend, even if their relationship more often leans competitive and manipulative. I’m pretty sure Jerry has unsuccessfully pressed Dash to invest in one of his various funds or cryptocurrencies for years. Dash refuses. Still, once a year they’ll take some disgusting boys’ trip to Vegas or Abu Dhabi or Monaco.
Who knows what Dash has confessed while drunk out of his mind?
I put Jerry down on my “mark list.” I just need to find a reason to be near him during dinner.
My eyes stray farther down the line of tuxedoed men until they land on Jackson. His hair is windswept in the salt spray, the flower of his boutonniere fluttering against his lapel. He’s standing straight, his hands clasped in front of him like he’s cut from marble.
He’s looking right at me, his expression a mixture of concern, longing, and hurt.
I don’t drop his gaze, getting an idea. The beginning of a new plan.
Phase Six.