THE LONG GAME

by Lynn Barnes

  I’d never met my biological father, but I couldn’t help wondering—if he were alive, if he were here, would he be saying those same words to me, that same quiet warning in his voice?

  “Tell me you understand,” Adam ordered.

  I understood that if my uncle was this serious about my steering clear, then whoever Ivy was meeting with, whatever she was on the verge of doing—it was big.

  “I’m waiting, Tess.”

  I held out a moment longer before saying what he wanted to hear. “I understand.”

  Adam removed his hand from my chin, trailing it lightly over the back of my head for a moment before stepping back. At his direction, I made my way out of the conference room. Just as I stepped into the hallway, the door to Ivy’s office opened.

  Adam was behind me in an instant, his hands resting lightly on each of my shoulders. If he’d had time, he probably would have steered me back out of the hall, but within a heartbeat, Ivy’s gaze landed on me. To an outside observer, her expression and posture would have seemed perfectly relaxed, but I could feel her struggling to hold on to that composure.

  She thought I was upstairs.

  Bodie appeared behind Ivy and mouthed four words at me: You had one job.

  “Adam already read me the riot act,” I told Ivy. Before she could reply, I turned my attention to the man standing next to her. He was in his late twenties. His blond hair was just long enough to be a little messy. His skin was suntanned. There was something familiar about the set of his features.

  “It’s fine,” the man told Ivy. “I don’t bite.” The dark circles under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights, but his voice was wry.

  Ivy’s not afraid of you, I thought, studying the way that she stiffened at his words. But she is afraid of something.

  “I’m Tess,” I said, since no one seemed inclined to introduce me. After a beat, the man held out a hand.

  Adam’s grip tightened slightly on my shoulders.

  “Walker,” the man said.

  The name triggered something in my brain, and I realized why he looked familiar—and who he resembled.

  His mother.

  I took his hand. “Walker,” I repeated. “As in Walker Nolan.”

  The president’s youngest son.

  CHAPTER 6

  Ivy refused to say a word about Walker Nolan’s visit. She left shortly after he did and still wasn’t home when I woke up the next morning.

  What could the president’s son have said that would send Ivy straight to DEFCON 1?

  Before Bodie dropped me off at Hardwicke, he put the obvious into words. “Don’t tell anyone—”

  “That the president’s youngest son is in some kind of trouble?” I filled in. “My lips are sealed.”

  The night before, I’d stayed up late reading everything I could find online about Walker Nolan. Of the three Nolan sons, Walker was the only one to decline Secret Service protection. He was twenty-nine, stayed more or less out of the limelight, and had spent two years with Doctors Without Borders before his father had taken office. I didn’t need to be a political genius to guess that any scandal involving the president’s son would dominate the news cycle going into midterm elections.

  Whatever Walker’s problem was, it had even Bodie on edge. “Not joking, kiddo.” Bodie turned in his seat and fixed me with a stare. “No matter what you see, no matter what you hear—you say nothing.”

  Dangerous. The word Adam had used the day before echoed in my mind.

  My stomach tightened. “I won’t.”

  After two or three seconds, Ivy’s driver gave a slight nod. “Get out of here,” he said, jerking his head toward the school. “And good luck with the campaign.”

  “We’ll begin with nominations for class presidents and then proceed to the school-wide offices.” The Hardwicke headmaster was a small man with glasses, a finely tuned sense of his own importance, and a voice that carried. “Are there nominations for freshman class president?”

  The nominations began to trickle in, and I leaned back in my seat. Once a month, the entire Hardwicke Upper School was shuffled into the chapel for an all-school meeting. Today’s meeting, as Emilia had indicated, was devoted to the upcoming student council elections.

  It was hard to bring myself to care about student council when my gut said that Ivy was on the verge of something big—something awful.

  No matter what you see, no matter what you hear—you say nothing.

  Bodie’s warning lingered in my head. Each time I went back over the words, they were more chilling. What exactly did Bodie think I might see or hear that would cause me to say something about Walker Nolan’s visit to our house?

  Why does the president’s son need Ivy’s services?

  Adam worked for the Pentagon. Since I’d moved to DC, he’d only consulted with Ivy on one other case: the assassination of Justice Marquette.

  No matter what you see, no matter what you hear—

  “And now we’ll open up nominations for student-body president.” Headmaster Raleigh’s voice broke through my thoughts. My whole body felt stiff, and I wondered how long I’d been sitting there, playing Bodie’s warning over and over in my head.

  “The office of student-body president is open to any junior in good academic standing,” the headmaster continued with the solemnity of a jury foreman delivering a verdict. “I encourage you to think long and hard about who will best represent both you as a student body and the principles of the Hardwicke School.”

  There was a moment of silence, broken by Asher rising to his feet and calling out, “Hear ye, hear ye!”

  The headmaster did a good impression of someone who was developing a migraine. “Mr. Rhodes,” he acknowledged. “A bit less with the dramatics, if you please.”

  In response, Asher placed one hand over his heart. “I, Asher Rhodes, being of reasonably sound body and mind, do hereby nominate the honorable—and, I might add, ridiculously good-looking—Henry Marquette.”

  Asher really didn’t know the meaning of the word less.

  “Who among you stands with me?” he asked, punching both fists into the air.

  It occurred to me then that Emilia had told me that John Thomas would be one of her opponents.

  As Henry’s nomination was seconded, Emilia caught my eyes and gave a small shrug. Clearly, she still expected me to hold up my end of the bargain.

  “Do you accept this nomination?” the headmaster asked Henry.

  “I’ll accept,” Henry said, “if and only if Asher agrees to never refer to me as good-looking again.”

  I snorted.

  “I regret nothing!” Asher yelled.

  A second later, someone called out, “I nominate John Thomas Wilcox.”

  The lacrosse player who’d been so fond of hazing—until I’d shut him down—seconded the nomination.

  “I am John Thomas Wilcox,” John Thomas said, with what passed as a good-natured grin, “and I accept this nomination.”

  That got a few snickers.

  “The floor remains open,” the headmaster declared. “Do we have a third nomination?”

  Emilia shot laser eyes at me. After returning her glare, I stood up.

  “Ms. Kendrick,” the headmaster said. “Err . . . Keyes,” he corrected himself. “Tess.”

  My last name was still a matter of some contention.

  “Do you have a nomination?” Raleigh asked me.

  I avoided looking at Henry as I answered, “I nominate Emilia Rhodes.”

  CHAPTER 7

  “Blackmail or bribe?” Asher caught up to me on the way back to the main building after chapel let out.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Blackmail or bribe?” Asher repeated. “Because I have some serious doubts that you were overcome by a swell of civic admiration for my twin, lovely though she may be.”

  Right now, lovely wasn’t a word I would have used to describe Emilia Rhodes.

  “My dearest, darling sister didn’t happen to mention she was r
unning against Henry, did she?” Asher asked.

  “She left that tidbit out,” I said dryly.

  Vivvie popped up on my other side. “Henry’s been our class president since kindergarten. Everyone figured he was a shoo-in for student-body president this year.”

  “You guys had a class president in kindergarten?” I asked incredulously.

  Asher nodded. “Henry was the only five-year-old to run on a three-pronged platform.”

  I honestly couldn’t tell if Asher was joking or not.

  “The third prong,” Asher continued, “was cookies.”

  We hit the door to the main building a second before the art teacher came striding out. “Inside,” he called. “Get to class, everyone.” The teacher’s whole body was as tight as a rubber band on the verge of snapping.

  We crossed the threshold into the building. All up and down the main corridor, teachers were ushering students into classrooms. A feeling of unease slithered down my spine.

  No matter what you see, no matter what you hear—

  Henry appeared beside me. From the expression on his face, it was clear that student council elections were the last thing on his mind. His jaw muscles were tensed, brown skin pulled taut across his cheekbones, his full lips set into a grim line.

  “What’s going on?” I asked him as we stepped into the classroom. I could hear murmurs all around me, was vaguely aware of the teacher telling us to take our seats—but my attention was focused on Henry.

  Wordlessly, he passed his cell phone to me. I forced myself to look at the screen.

  BOMB DETONATES IN DC HOSPITAL

  The headline froze the air in my lungs. I couldn’t inhale. I couldn’t exhale.

  No matter what you see, Bodie had told me, no matter what you hear—you say nothing.

  CHAPTER 8

  I had no way of knowing if Walker Nolan’s problem had anything to do with what the media were calling an act of terrorism. I texted Ivy with shaky hands. I needed her to tell me she was okay. Ivy called Adam in on this one. Adam works for the Pentagon. Bodie told me not to say anything—

  Ivy texted back less than a minute after I’d texted her. I’m fine. Can you get a ride home from school today?

  In other words: she needed Bodie with her.

  What’s going on? I texted back.

  The reply came an instant later. Can you get a ride home from school today?

  My Spanish teacher saw the cell phone in my hand but said nothing. I wasn’t the only one texting my parents.

  Yes. I typed in my reply, pressing down on the urge to repeat my question to Ivy the way she’d repeated hers to me. Henry had a car. So did Emilia—and Asher was pretty liberal about “borrowing” it. I could manage a ride home from school.

  I’d just spend the next six hours wondering what Ivy was doing that she needed Bodie with her.

  Spanish class flew by, then physics. Since chapel had replaced my first-period English class, fifth period—the only class I shared with John Thomas Wilcox—came quickly.

  “Word on the street is that you’re helping Emilia Rhodes with her campaign.” John Thomas clearly wasn’t having any trouble shaking off the news of the bombing. The rest of the school was on edge, a pallor cast over the student body at the reminder that bad things could and did happen close to home. The expression on John Thomas’s face was appropriately somber, but mismatched to the glint in his eyes.

  “Just like your sister helped President Nolan with his campaign,” John Thomas continued. “And look how well that turned out. Nolan has made a mess of national security. Whatever casualties there are today, that blood is on your precious president’s hands—and your sister’s.”

  No matter what you see, no matter what you hear—you say nothing.

  “Class is starting.” Henry took the seat in front of me and leveled a stare at John Thomas. “Eyes to the front, Wilcox.”

  “Protective, isn’t he?” John Thomas asked me. “You do have a way with the opposite sex.”

  Among the limited tricks in John Thomas’s repertoire was suggesting that I’d cemented my position at Hardwicke by sleeping my way through the junior class. He’d never managed to get a rise out of me on the topic, but that didn’t keep him from trying.

  Mr. Wesley—who taught Speaking of Words, the Hardwicke version of “speech”—seemed to sense that today wasn’t a good day to even attempt a lecture. He put on a video of a poetry slam and turned off the lights.

  “Girls like you, women like your sister—they’re only good for one thing,” John Thomas whispered. “And it’s not running campaigns.”

  “Mr. Wilcox,” the teacher called out. “Watch the video.”

  John Thomas let his eyes linger on me. “I’m watching.”

  CHAPTER 9

  “Sources are reporting that there were no casualties in today’s bombing—thanks, in large part, to an anonymous tip that Homeland Security received last night about this woman.”

  The moment World Issues had started, Dr. Clark had dimmed the lights and turned on the news. In sharp contrast to the video in Speaking of Words, everyone’s attention was focused on the screen now.

  This woman. The picture that accompanied the anchor’s words was a profile shot, taken from a distance. The woman was young—dark hair, fair skin, athletic build.

  “While the Nolan administration has issued no confirmation of the woman’s identity, documents leaked to the press suggest she was a medical researcher living in Bethesda under the name Daniela Nicolae. It is unclear at this time whether or not that is her actual name.”

  At the front of the classroom, Dr. Clark watched us watching the news report. I glanced at Henry, whose eyes were locked on the screen, then at Asher, who was sitting as still as I’d ever seen him. Beside me, Vivvie’s fingers worried at the sleeve of her blazer, her dark brown eyes cast downward.

  “No casualties. A suspect in custody. I don’t see how this is anything other than a victory for the current administration.”

  While I’d been assessing my friends, the program had switched to a “he said, she said” format. Pundits sat to either side of the anchor. He had no sooner given his opinion than she chimed in.

  “Who is this Daniela Nicolae? How did she get into the country? And why is an anonymous tip the only thing standing between us and a terrorist attack on American soil?” The female pundit was a redhead in her early forties. She was girl-next-door pretty and utterly without mercy. “Under the Nolan administration,” she continued, letting loose at rapid fire and not giving her opponent an opportunity to interject, “our intelligence agencies have become more concerned with spying on American citizens and policing our private communications than in tracking foreign nationals like Nicolae.”

  An argument erupted between the two pundits. When the anchor took over again, he addressed the camera, his voice solemn. “This is what we know: according to her passport, Daniela Nicolae is twenty-eight years old, with dual citizenship in Venezuela and Belarus. She was educated in England and graduated from Oxford with a degree in medicine at the age of twenty-four. She spent three years with Doctors Without Borders before beginning a research fellowship here in the States.”

  “And the only reason we know any of that,” the female pundit said when the floor was hers once more, “the only reason we even know this woman’s name, is because of a security leak. Quite frankly, I don’t know whether to be more concerned that we still haven’t heard from the president on any of this, or about the fact that under his watch, our national security is springing leaks.”

  Dr. Clark lifted the remote and hit the power button. As the screen went black, she said something about us breaking into small groups to discuss our own reactions to the day’s events, but I barely heard her.

  I was still stuck on three words, buried between the female pundit’s diatribes.

  Doctors Without Borders.

  CHAPTER 10

  Walker Nolan had volunteered his medical services overseas for two years under
the Doctors Without Borders banner. I wanted to believe that it was a coincidence that Daniela Nicolae had worked for the same group.

  I wanted to, but I didn’t.

  Homeland Security apprehended her based on an anonymous tip, my brain kept reminding me.

  Ivy solved problems. Walker Nolan had one—and his problem had required the help of Ivy’s contact at the Pentagon.

  “You are being suspiciously quiet.” Henry had volunteered to drive me home. Until now, both of us had passed the ride in silence. Henry slanted his eyes briefly toward mine. “The last time you were this quiet, Kendrick, you were plotting the downfall of Jeremy Bancroft’s father.”

  I’d promised Bodie I wouldn’t say a word to anyone about Walker Nolan. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d kept something from Henry.

  It probably wouldn’t be the last.

  “I’m not plotting anything,” I told the boy next to me. “Promise.”

  “I feel so very comforted,” Henry said. He came to a stop at a red light and turned to look at me head-on. “This is my comforted face.”

  “You sound like Asher,” I retorted. “He has a face for every occasion.”

  “Whereas you,” Henry said, “just have a poker face, the appearance of which is typically a cause for concern.”

  “I’m not the only one who’s been quiet,” I pointed out. Henry had passed the first half of this drive just as caught up in his thoughts as I was in mine. And I’m not the only one with a poker face, I added silently.

  I’d been thinking about Walker Nolan. What had Henry been thinking about?

  “John Thomas Wilcox.” Henry had a gift for changing the subject and making it sound like he wasn’t changing it at all. “Today in fifth period. Whatever he said about you, about Ivy, he is not worth even a moment of your thoughts.”

  “Doesn’t it strike you as a little hypocritical to tell me not to pay attention to anything John Thomas says about Ivy?” I asked lightly. “It’s not like you’ve ever been a member of the Ivy Kendrick fan club.”