Copyright © 2025 by Wendelin Van Draanen

  All Rights Reserved

  HOLIDAY HOUSE is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

  www.holidayhouse.com

  First Digital Edition

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Van Draanen, Wendelin author

  Title: The steps / by Wendelin Van Draanen.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Holiday House, 2025. | Audience term: Teenagers | Audience: Ages 12 and up | Summary: “Fourteen-year-old chess whiz Ruby Vossen plays a deadly game to keep her step family from stealing her wealthy (but dysfunctional) family’s fortune”—Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2024045589 | ISBN 9780823460380 hardcover

  Subjects: CYAC: Family problems—Fiction | Stepfamilies—Fiction | Family secrets—Fiction | LCGFT: Thrillers (Fiction) | Novels

  Classification: LCC PZ7.V2857 St 2025 | DDC [Fic]—dc23/eng/20250320

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2024045589

  ISBN: 978-0-8234-6038-0 (hardcover)

  e-Book ISBN: 978-0-8234-6336-7

  EU Authorized Representative: HackettFlynn Ltd, 36 Cloch Choirneal, Balrothery, Co. Dublin, K32 C942, Ireland. EU@walkerpublishinggroup.com

  For Sally, who made Ruby shine

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER 1

  The wind was already whipping around outside, howling like an angry ghost, when our monster pine tree began scratching at my bedroom window.

  With its long, gnarled branches and deep groans, that tree’s like something out of a horror movie. Plus, everything on the forty acres of my grandmother’s property that knows how to climb or fly or crawl lives in it, including a terrifying number of little brown beetles. Which is all bad enough during the day, but at night I get to hear the ear-piercing sounds of something-killing-something-else. My nightly lullaby. No wonder my dreams are so messed up.

  Dad won’t take the tree out, or even trim it back. Says it’s too big and too expensive. When I suggested he ask Oma for the money to do it, seeing how the tree may be standing next to our house but she’s the one who actually owns it, Stepmommy Dearest cut in, saying, “You need to change your thinking, Ruby. That tree is a goddess of nature!”

  Easy for her to say from her suite on the other side of the house. And if you ask me—which no one ever does, by the way—she’s the only one pretending to be a goddess.

  Well, when my dad’s around, anyway.

  The rest of the time she’s more like the tree.

  But whatever. My usual solution for the tree is to keep my curtains closed and my window locked tight. Yesterday’s rainstorm must’ve given the tree another growth spurt, though, because the branch scratching against the glass was so loud I couldn’t concentrate on the mountain of homework I still had to do. Once again, I was going to have to open the window, saw off a branch, and hope no rabid rodent jumped out to fang me.

  For the record, yes, I keep a sharky-toothed foldout saw in my room. It’s more convenient than storing it in the shed, and having it on hand also means I don’t have to deal with any of the Steps. And no, that’s not the steps that make up the flight and a half of stairs that lead up to my little room in this creaky old house. I’m talking about the capital-S Steps—my dad’s new wife, Vivian, and her two kids, Brielle and Liam. They moved in five months ago while I was at summer camp—surprise!—and are the reason I’m living in what used to be my attic playroom.

  Anyway, I’d grabbed my saw and was just finding the courage to open my window and deal with the tree when my phone went prr-ring!

  I jumped. But just a little, okay? A text is nothing to be jumpy about, even when the wind’s whipping, the tree’s groaning, and the window’s screeching.

  Except then I read the text:

  Are you in your room?

  I sat down on my bed, puzzled. The text wouldn’t be weird coming from Dad or one of the Steps, but the phone number wasn’t one I recognized. Which—given the screechy-scratching and all—creeped me out a little.

  So I did what anyone would do. I sent back Who is this? and stared at my screen, waiting for a reply.

  Screech. Screeeeeeech. Scr-screech! went the stupid monster tree.

  My eyes were starting to water from staring, but the screen stayed completely still. No reply dots. Nothing.

  Screech. Screeeeeeech. Scr-screech!

  Who in the world wanted to know if I was in my room?

  I flopped onto my stomach, dangled over the edge of the mattress, and hauled out my hatchet.

  Yes, I said hatchet. Don’t judge.

  I resurfaced in time to hear a message land—prr-ring!

  Open your window!

  WHO ARE YOU? I texted back. And yeah, my hands were shaking a little.

  Wavy dots.

  Stillness.

  Wavy dots.

  Stillness.

  “Oh, come on!” I hissed at the phone. “How hard is it to type your own name?”

  Prrr-ring! the phone chimed. It’s Sterling. Open up.

  LIAR, I texted back.

  But then from outside, through the howling-ghost wind and tree groans and monster fingernails on my window, I heard, “RUBY, OPEN YOUR WINDOW!”

  Whoa.

  It sounded like Sterling’s voice. So … was she scratching at the window? Texting me? We hadn’t climbed the tree since … well, since before everything broke bad, including the tree. And even back then, we’d only ever climbed up to the tree fort. We’d never gone out far enough on a limb to reach the window.

  I yanked open my bedroom door and did a quick inspection of the hallway. Call me paranoid, but you don’t live here, okay?

  After making sure the Steps weren’t around, I closed the door, propped a chair under the knob, and grabbed my hatchet. Because, you know … just in case?

  “RUBY! OPEN THE WINDOW!”

  It was definitely Sterling—my cousin and former best friend—and she was definitely breaking a tightly enforced family law by talking to me.

  I flicked off the lights, threw back the curtains, pushed up the window, and stuck my head out into the windy darkness.

  Except … I didn’t see Sterling in the tree.

  And … there wasn’t a branch touching my window.

  So … was this some sort of trick?

  I ducked back inside and grabbed my Super Tac flashlight. It’s super bright—200 lumens—and has an easy fist-grip and a thumb-press switch, so it’s great for blinding burglars or bears or rabid rodents ready to lunge at you through a curtain of pine needles.

  And yeah, in case you’re wondering, it also works on the Steps.

  Anyway, as I lit up the tree with the flashlight, I could see a lot of glassy eyes shining back at me, but none of them seemed human.

  “Over here!” Sterling’s voice hoarse-whispered from somewhere to my right.

  I leaned farther out my window and swept my light around until I found her clinging to a trellis on the side of the house. She was wearing dark clothes, had the hoodie under her jacket up, and was holding a long, skinny branch.

  “What are you doing?” I hissed.

  “Get that light out of my eyes!” she hissed back.

  I clicked it off and glanced over my shoulder at my bedroom door. Even with a prop lock, I was nervous about getting caught talking to her.

  “Where’s the rope?” Sterling asked. “It’s not in the tree fort.”

  None of this made sense. “I’m going to be in so much trouble if Dad finds out I’m talking to you!” I hoarse-whispered.

  “Same!” she hoarse-whispered back as she worked her way down the trellis to the ground. “That’s why I’m asking about the rope! Did you stash it under your bed?”

  This infuriated me. We hadn’t spoken in almost a year, and she could still somehow guess where I’d stashed the rope? Even more infuriating, I was in high school now! How was I still the girl who kept a rope—and a hatchet and a saw and stuff I won’t even begin to admit—under her bed?

  But the truth is, it’s not just the tree that scares me.

  It’s also the Steps.

  “Well, if you’ve got it,” Sterling was saying, “use it.” She moved closer. “Unless you can sneak out another way?”

  “Sneak out … why? Why are you here?! And why didn’t you just say it was you when you texted me?”

  “It wasn’t me texting you,” she said, ignoring my mini-meltdown. “It was Nick.”

  “Nick?” The name caught in my throat. I wasn’t allowed to talk to him, either, seeing how he’s Sterling’s stepbrother, which makes him my stepcousin, which means he’s caught up in the whole Vossen Family Feud. “Nick knows you’re here?”

  “It was his idea,” Sterli
ng whispered. “He keeps saying the Feud’s stupid and that I should hang out with you.” She was standing right below my window now, her head tilted way back. “So … do you have the rope or not? I need your help over at the mansion. It’s an emergency.”

  “An emergency?” The last time there’d been an emergency, our mothers had died in a car crash.

  “You know what? Forget it,” Sterling said, and turned to leave. “I should have known you’d be too much of a rule follower to help me.”

  “What? No! Wait!” Suddenly I didn’t care if I got caught. Or grounded. Or suffered the Wrath of Dad. If Sterling was finally willing to break the ice, why should I be so cold? “I’m coming!” I whispered fiercely.

  “Now there’s the Ruby Vossen I’ve missed,” she said.

  And just like that, my heart fluttered open and set the Rules free. I dove under my bed for the rope, where it lay coiled like a fat hemp snake. I dragged it out, tied one end of it around the leg of my bed, and heaved the rest of it out the window.

  Then I pulled on a jacket, a beanie, and some gloves, stashed my phone, hatchet, and flashlight in my backpack, and climbed out the window.

  CHAPTER 2

  Sterling Vossen is the only friend I’ve ever needed. We were born weeks apart and grew up right down the road from each other on our grandmother’s estate. And it’s a good thing we got along, because Vossen Manor is on the outskirts of Emerald Glen, and there were no other kids around for miles. But we never got bored of each other, or of exploring the property, which has no fences and just fades out into forest.

  The estate has its own private “lollipop road” that Ts off Wilkhammer—the main road into town. The stick part of the lollipop climbs a steep hill, then the road becomes one-way and swoops around the property in a large circle. Along the outside of the circle, you pass by my house, then the old stables and carriage house at the crest of the lollipop, then Sterling’s house. In the middle of the circle is Oma’s mansion, looming above everything else on a slight hill.

  When I was younger and Opa was still alive, the mansion seemed like a castle to Sterling and me. It was built in 1902, and my great-grandfather bought the property “lock, stock, and barrel,” as Opa used to tell it, from a family that lost their fortune during a stock market crash. But after Opa died things changed, and now it feels more like a spooky old house on a hill—a house that’s watching ours, passing judgment. Sterling and I may live on a “manor,” but our houses are definitely not mansions. They’ve been renovated to look fancier, but Sterling’s house used to be servants’ quarters, and ours was the guest house.

  I loved living here when I was little. Sterling and I would spend hours in the woods playing Snow White and Rose Red from the classic Grimms’ fairy tale, which our mothers had read to us. We would search for the ungrateful dwarf’s stolen treasure, chase bunnies through the pines, or hunt for fairies while our mothers picnicked together in a clearing near the carriage house that we called the Meadow. Sterling was Snow White because in that version of the story Snow White’s hair is blond, and I was Rose Red because mine’s dark brown with red highlights.

  As we got older, our games changed. We thought it was fun to rummage through junk in the abandoned carriage house and stables, and when Sterling came over to my house, we’d hang out in the tree fort and braid each other’s hair, or play cards or chess, or just talk. Sterling was definitely the leader, but I didn’t care. Whatever she was in the mood for, I was happy to go along with. I was never lonely, and I never wanted anything other than what I had. Looking back, I see that my life wasn’t just privileged, it was magical.

  And then came that horrible January morning when everything changed.

  My dad’s sister, Katrina, was the one who woke me. “Ruby? Sweet girl, you need to get up.”

  “Tante Katrina?” I was groggy, and it was strange to take in her long, coppery-red hair and the smell of her perfume instead of my mom’s dark hair and the scent of sandalwood soap. “Where’s Mom?”

  “We’re having a family meeting over at Oma’s,” she said gently. “Everyone’s there already.”

  “But …” I checked the time on my phone. “I’m going to be late for school!” I really liked my sixth-grade teacher, Ms. Zimms, but she was super strict, and at the moment she was my biggest concern.

  Katrina stroked my hair and smiled at me, but it looked like she was about to cry. “You and Sterling aren’t going to school today.” She gave me a gentle tug. “Come on, Ruby. Let’s get to Oma’s, shall we?”

  I began to get worried about more than school as we drove over to the mansion. Tante Katrina refused to say why we were having a family meeting, and even though she was trying to hide it, I could tell she was upset. But my worry was put on hold for a minute when we walked into my grandmother’s study and I saw Sterling, her dad, and my dad. Sterling ran over to hug me and whispered, “I think there’s a surprise for us! Maybe for our birthdays?”

  Oma’s study is a big room with a huge desk, its own fireplace, and enough antique couches and armchairs to fill a museum. It wasn’t until after Oma told us to sit together on a settee that I noticed how serious my dad looked, or that Sterling’s dad’s face was blotchy red, and that he was breathing funny.

  Oma hissed, “Pull yourself together, Axel!” at Sterling’s dad, and that’s when we knew.

  Something was very wrong.

  Oma cleared her throat, looked directly at us, and said, “Girls, I’m afraid we have some bad news.” After a dramatic pause, she said, “Your mothers were in a car accident last night, and both have perished.”

  “Perished?” I asked, but I’d already begun to cry.

  “What are you saying?” Sterling choked out.

  “Darling, it means they’ve died,” Oma said. “It’s terrible news, and I’m sorry, but it’s true.”

  I learned later that our dads and Oma had been up all night, and that it had been Oma’s idea to break the news to us this way. I guess she thought things would go better if she told us instead of our fathers, and my dad and uncle let her. But with Oma sitting behind her big desk, flanked by our dads, and Sterling and me perched like oversized dolls on the hard springs of an ancient settee, everything felt so unreal. So distant. So clinical.

  And then, as we sat there stunned by the news, our fathers started arguing. Their voices got louder and louder, but Oma hushed them with “Enough!” And after a few moments of simmering conversation, she said, “Well, you need to figure something out. I will not be saddled with that, do you understand?”

  “Saddled? Mother, be reasonable,” Uncle Axel begged.

  “Two weeks,” my grandmother said firmly. “And then you need to have other arrangements in place.”

  In the months following my mom’s death, I didn’t understand half of what was going on. I didn’t understand why my father seemed to avoid me, or why he and Uncle Axel were fighting so much, or why Tante Katrina’s visits were getting farther and farther apart. I just knew that when I was with Sterling, things felt better. She and I understood what we were going through in a way no one else could, and when we were together it didn’t feel quite as much like the world had ended.

  The two of us went to Oma’s mansion almost every day for our assigned chores—chores we’d been doing since we were old enough to sweep, and which, for some reason, got added to after our mothers died.

  Sometimes we’d hear Oma raise her voice, and we’d abandon our cleaning to eavesdrop. She’d be on the phone barking out something like “Watch your tone, young man. My daughter’s a lawyer and she’d be happy to file a suit if you don’t resolve this immediately.” Other times we’d overhear her arguing with our fathers about money. “That is not my responsibility! Isn’t it enough that you live on the grounds for a pittance? Take care of it yourself if you want it done!”

  Meanwhile, time kept ticking. Sterling and I began seventh grade at Deerfield Academy—the private school we’d attended since kindergarten—and there were enough distractions to get me laughing again. Sterling had always been the more outgoing one, and she managed to make enough friends for the both of us.

  At first, our dads didn’t seem to mind that Sterling and I spent all our time together, even though they weren’t getting along. When I was at Sterling’s, Uncle Axel would ask questions about my dad—about his investment firm and how things were going, and stuff I didn’t understand, like insurance money. And when Sterling was over at my house, my dad would do the same thing. He tried to act casual, but there was something behind his questions that seemed really important to him. Much more important than, say, how our day had been.