Fifty-Nine
WE START SPENDING OUR FORTUNE IN A GAS STATION AT MIDNIGHT. Everyone in the crew walks down the aisles, grabbing anything and everything we want. Under the fluorescents, arms full, we feel like royalty. No—royalty isn’t earned. Nor does it celebrate with snacks. I’d rather be masterminds.
I check out at the register and meet my crew outside, where they’re waiting for their own rides home holding more Pringles, Skittles, and Gatorade than anyone in formal wear probably ever has. In the white aura of the gas station light on the inky abyss of the pavement, the portrait of them is perfect. Waiting shoulder to shoulder like a police lineup or a wedding party. Collars loosened, cheeks flushed, eyes wide with exhausted joy.
Queen—
No. No more code names. Not for friends. Heart full, I correct myself.
Abigail. Deonte. Tom. McCoy. Kevin. Jackson.
Kevin’s rideshare arrives first. He’s returning to the wedding, where Mitchum will expect to find his son, waiting in the Lamborghini in punishment for his fancy-watch stunt. With misty eyes, he hugs every member of the crew. I pat him on the back when he reaches me.
“We’re hanging out next weekend, right?” he asks.
“I’m not sure I’ll be recovered by next weekend,” I say honestly. “I feel like I could sleep for days.”
“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Kevin replies. “Only thing is, Saturday is my birthday, so…” He trails off hopefully.
“Are you inviting us to your birthday party?” Tom asks.
Kevin smiles, sheepish. “If you think it’s cool, then yeah. Or not, whatever.”
I laugh. “We’ll be there,” I promise him.
“Yeah, man, I’ll make cupcakes,” Deonte adds.
Kevin brightens. “For real?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Tom assures him with real warmth.
Kevin nods in gratitude. While he walks to his waiting UberX, I’m pretty certain I hear him sniffle.
Next is Deonte. His car pulls up in the midnight fog starting to drift over the highway. “Congrats on your first of many,” I call out to him.
He furrows his brow doubtfully. “I’m good on heists for a bit,” he replies.
I shake my head. “First wedding where you provided the cake,” I clarify.
Now pride steals into his slow smile. He climbs into the car, waving his goodbye. The million dollars going to his bakery is probably the best use any of us will make of my father’s fortune. It’s practically a public service.
While I watch the car drive away, I feel a hand on my back. Tom stands beside me.
“I’m off,” he says.
I feel a little sad how quickly the crew is separating. In my heart, I know it’s not only the comedown, the dizzying effect of the plan I designed disassembling itself into the fond recesses of shared memories. If I’m really honest, I’m also a little scared. When you hold people close, the connection isn’t durable like diamond. It’s fragile like glass.
“Don’t be a stranger,” I say, hoping my voice hides my vulnerability.
His lips curl in a half grin. “To you? How could I?”
I hear his unspoken undercurrent. We’re too alike to ever be strangers to each other.
He walks to his waiting car, the light emphasizing the lines of his figure. “Feel free to give my number to your cousin anytime,” he calls out over his shoulder.
“Hilarious,” I reply flatly.
He shrugs. “With the return of golden boy over there, I’ll need a new date to the next Owens heist.”
Something squirms in my stomach. Not exactly jealousy, not exactly not jealousy. More like anticipation. No matter what I do next, I know Tom will be with me.
I face the remainder of the crew. Except it isn’t the remainder of the crew. Jackson waits with his hands in his pockets. McCoy stands with him, visibly exhausted. Abigail is gone. With my heart pounding painfully, I pass my gaze down the road and finally find her, walking on the side of the highway, nearly out of sight.
It hurts instantly. I feel naive, remembering my excitement to have her in my life without ever considering whether she wanted me in hers. Of course she wouldn’t. Whatever distrust I feel for the Owens family, she must feel a hundredfold. I have to respect her instinct for wariness, even if the rejection hurts. It’s the problem with the fragility of glass. It cuts deep when you’re not looking.
I could chase her. I could probably catch her easily. What holds me in place is knowing she doesn’t want me to. It’s devastatingly important. Learning who Abigail is left me reckoning with what my father really robbed her of. It wasn’t just my life on the Owens estate, or hers. It wasn’t just luxury or loneliness. It was deeper. He decided our lives for us. I would live in the house. Abigail Pierce would not.
Revelation came over me while we ran from our coup in his office. Every step felt like life reclaimed. I missed one crucial point of the day, I realized. I wasn’t only stealing millions. I wasn’t only stealing revenge, or what I deserve, or what my mom deserves. I was stealing freedom.
I won’t deprive Abigail of it now. If my sister wants to leave, I won’t force her to stay.
The closing of the van door distracts me. I find McCoy has returned to the driver’s seat with the windows rolled down. He’ll drive it to the rental tonight. I walk up to the door and hook my fingers in the open window. “You good?” I ask him.
“I’m good.” He hesitates, weighing his next words. “I’m proud of you, Olivia,” he says.
The emotion lodged in my throat surprises me. “Proud of me for embarking on a successful life of crime?”
He doesn’t drop my gaze, his expression serious. “Proud of who you are.”
I fight the wobble in my lip, the water in my eyes. “You better drive off,” I say, “before I start crying like Kevin.” I hardly manage to get the sentence out.
McCoy laughs and starts the engine.
“Thanks,” I add, unable to say more. It’s a little overwhelming, realizing how much I needed to hear pride from someone like him—someone, I guess, like a father figure in my life. I needed it desperately. My dad was proud of me only when he thought he could use me. Knowing someone appreciates me for me… It’s funny, how the most precious rewards are sometimes found in gas station parking lots instead of in safes or secret accounts.
McCoy drives off, the van’s red lights disappearing into the night fog. It’s finally just me and Jackson.
He holds his arm out, and I walk into the embrace and cling to his side for warmth. When he speaks after a moment, I feel his voice vibrate against me.
“I can’t believe I ran through your house evading security,” he complains playfully, “and I’m not even getting a cut.”
“It’s not like you’re walking away empty-handed,” I point out. Withdrawing from his arms, I entwine my fingers with his.
He grins. It’s dazzling. “You’re right,” he says. “I made the biggest score of the night by far.”
I’m smiling when he kisses me, capturing me with lips I doubt I’ll ever stop longing for. When he pulls back, he takes something out of his jacket pocket. I glimpse metal reflecting cool light.
“I did, however, steal one thing tonight,” he says.
He opens his hand, revealing my necklace.
I’m speechless, my gasp caught in my chest. It means, quietly, everything. Weeks ago, Jackson refused to steal anything under any circumstances. The fact that he did now, and it was this, the pendant-shaped piece of my heart, robs me of words. I recognize what it really is—the work of someone who deeply, irrevocably cares about me.
He drapes it around my neck and lets his fingers linger as he secures the clasp. I shiver—and not from the cold. His caress feels impossibly real, and with it comes the pleasant shock of realizing, while I can’t trust everyone, I can trust my own heart.