Heiress Takes All

by Emily Wibberley

It was a screenshot. Of a message from Jackson. Wondering whether she was, in unambiguous insinuations, down to hook up. Trying his very hardest to make illicit plans with Kelly, which she sent to me out of girl-code courtesy.

Bro in the age of the iphone.

“Don’t lie to me, Jackson.” I cut him off. “You’re no good at it.”

I needed our relationship to remember what I should’ve known going into it—giving my heart to him was childish, something I should have outgrown by now. Now Jackson just looks lost. Stranded in a maze of his own making. Good. It’s where I needed this conversation to end. “Please,” I say calmly. “Respect me and my new boyfriend enough not to bother me today.”

I’ll never give him the response he wants. While I wish I could forgive him, I can’t.

Hoping the rest of the crew followed my orders expediently, I’m pleased when I find only one phone taped to the back of the toilet.

I wish I was convinced the only reason Jackson hates my father is because Dash Owens is, well, Dash Owens. Public figurehead of entitled assholes. Except I know it isn’t the full story. Part of the reason Jackson hates my father is because he knows how deeply my father hurt me.

While Jackson is not calculating, he has natural savvy. He learns card games fast. He wins in-class debates with no prep. He figures out the plots of movies.

The thing is, Jackson may know me, but I know him, too. He doesn’t quit when he wants something. I walk past him, ready to leave.

“If”—he emphasizes the word, walking up to me—“you save me a dance.” I frown imperiously. I don’t like negotiating. I don’t like conceding. It kind of negates the whole staying-in-control plan. However, I’m not keen on wasting more precious minutes up here in present company.

I’ll probably have fled the wedding when he comes to collect anyway. “Fine,” I say. “One dance.”

This is the problem with Jackson. He makes me volatile. He makes me scribble outside The Plan’s clean lines. He is rogue flashbacks when I need clarity, uncooperative variables in my long-forethought formulas. He has the power to flip my chessboard right over, send the pieces flying.

If I’m the one with the heist plans, why do I feel like the one robbed right now? Robbed of focus, of control, of every fragment of rationality in my head?

I have two objectives. I need to reach the rendezvous point. First, however, I need guests to see me enter the house with my “new boyfriend” so they’ll assume I’ve gone inside for a quick hookup. It was annoying when Mitchum saw me leave the boathouse with Jackson, but it also gives me confidence in my next alibi.

I have to hand it to Maureen—the event is impressive. Every detail feels planned, every placement of white roses, even every piece of crystalware and the precise white shade of the cocktail napkins.

Which I’m certain he was. Honestly, my Swiss cousins intimidate me. My grandmother’s money comes from her mother, whose money ultimately comes from Swiss-noble fortunes. She eventually returned home to the family holdings in Switzerland when my grandparents separated. My father’s siblings went with her. In Europe, they’ve extended their richesse in ways quieter yet, per every indication, more impressive than my dad’s little media empire.

Divorce runs in the family.

Whenever our flight home lifted off the ground, I was grateful.

Mia regards me, clocking right away how cheap my outfit is. Her impassive gaze is exactly like I remember. Of course, she looks stunning. Her perfectly blond hair is undoubtedly undyed, her shoulder-length cut shaped like fine sculpture. Her green silk dress snares the light in symphonies of shining curves. Finn stands beside her, six feet tall and formidable in a designer tux.

Grandma Leonie has her own plane and flies for pleasure year-round. She has not, however, spoken to her son since I was a kid. I haven’t seen the Swiss side of the family in years outside of social media, where they’re not easy to overlook. Ski chalets, high-fashion events, nightclubs in every member state of the European Union.

People retain information more when they think they’ve figured it out themselves.

“Your cousin is hot,” he informs me. “And terrifying. Maybe hot because she’s terrifying.”

While much of his performance would, I emphasized, require improvisation, we would have to hit certain key moments for necessary effect.

I wish it weren’t easy for them to jump to the conclusion I’ve engineered—wish every one of my dad’s friends didn’t project onto me the ready-made stereotype of the careless, obnoxious girl. Even so, I’m using every resource I have. It’s like the saying. When life gives you lemons, make millions of dollars illegally.

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.

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.

Or detained because McCoy kidnapped her, as I very precisely ordered?

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

“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.

“I have some job leads. But if I get caught as a kidnapper, I’ll never even get another teaching interview again.”

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.”

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.

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 has a radical vigor for the idea of shaking a society like the high-class, low-morals one he encountered in his previous employment.

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.

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.

“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’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.”

“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.”

I’m familiar enough with Berkshire kids’ recreational weekends to know five thousand dollars won’t get you very far.

THE ROOM IS HALF UNDERGROUND, THE rectangular panes level with the lawn. The grass is perfectly peridot in the daylight. It’s funny—despite the subterranean situation, it doesn’t feel claustrophobic or constrained. Instead, it’s protected. The vantage point I need.

“You look kind of familiar,” Kevin says behind me. “We’ve never met,” McCoy replies. I glance over my shoulder, finding Kevin eyeing McCoy. “Do a lot of kidnappings?” he asks pleasantly.

In my view is Mitchum Webber, easy to locate from his unsmiling solitude. Dude is practically wearing a sign saying least fun person here. Without his phone, without clients to email or news to half read, he looks uneasy, as if he’s imagining places he wishes he were instead of here, sipping four-hundred-dollar champagne in the middle of Rhode Island’s loveliest wedding.

With Tom’s next words, Mitchum chuckles and claps my crew member on the shoulder. Knight has loosened up our mark’s miserable demeanor effortlessly.

Watching Tom is witnessing the clean magic of someone doing exactly what they’re supposed to.

“In order to make a ransom call, Mitchum needs a phone,” I say, knowing he’s going to want commentary on every step. I’m stuck with him now. “Watch.”

The point of a successful heist is for the audience not to realize what they’re seeing. But with Kevin, I can flex a little.

If he considers himself “in on the scheme,” he’ll cooperate and will be less inclined to give us up later.