During my first week at Hardwicke, I’d inadvertently come to the rescue of the vice president’s daughter. At the time, I’d had no idea who she was—all I’d known was that she’d been humiliated by an older boy who’d talked her into taking some very intimate photos. When I’d heard the jerk was flaunting those photos, I’d lost my temper, stolen his phone, and issued a couple of pointed threats.
Anna Hayden had been very grateful. She’d deemed me a miracle worker, and just like that, the Hardwicke student body had collectively decided that I was to them what my sister was to their parents.
A professional problem solver. Someone who excelled at crisis management. A fixer.
I’m not a fixer. I’d given up making that particular objection out loud. And, a persistent voice continued in the back of my head, Ivy isn’t my sister.
As I’d recently found out, she was my mother.
The sound of the bell broke through my thoughts, saving me from going down the rabbit hole of trying to figure out what Ivy really was to me now that I knew the truth.
“I know how much you all love Mondays,” Dr. Clark said from the front of the room. “And the only thing that makes Mondays better is pop quizzes, am I right?”
That elicited audible groans.
“Paper and pencils,” Dr. Clark decreed, ignoring the groans. On the whiteboard, she wrote a single question in all capital letters: WHAT ISSUE DO YOU THINK WILL MOST AFFECT THE RESULTS OF MIDTERM ELECTIONS?
Instead of history, Hardwicke juniors took Contemporary World Issues. Theoretically, this class was supposed to turn us into global citizens, informed about a wide variety of issues playing out on the international stage. In reality, there were enough of us in this class with political connections that “world issues” all too often struck close to home.
“Your answers to this question will form the basis for today’s discussion.” Dr. Clark leaned back against her desk. “Since I’m not actually cruel enough to give you a Monday quiz, feel free to leave your names off your papers.”
As my classmates started scribbling down their answers, I turned the question over in my head. I was enough of a Kendrick—and enough of a Keyes—to know that the midterm elections were shaping up to be brutal. If the president lost control of Congress, his chances of getting a second term in the White House were next to nothing. Ivy was currently working for no fewer than three congressmen up for reelection at midterms. I had no idea what exactly she was doing for them, but a person didn’t come to Ivy Kendrick unless there was a problem—or a secret that needed to stay buried.
Slowly, I put my pen to the page and jotted down my answer, letter by letter. What factor did I expect to play a role in the midterm elections?
C – O – R – R – U – P – T – I – O – N.
As my pen formed the letters, I thought less about what Ivy was doing now than about the secrets I carried, in part, because of her. My first few weeks at Hardwicke had been very eventful—the kind of eventful that involved assassinations, cover-ups, and being kidnapped by a rogue Secret Service agent.
“Answers in,” Dr. Clark called.
I folded my paper in half, then turned and met Henry’s eyes as he passed his to me. He held my gaze, and I wondered what he’d written down.
I wondered if Henry was thinking about the political conspiracy we’d uncovered together.
As Dr. Clark collected our answers, she started lecturing. “Right now, the Nolan administration has the benefit of a majority in both the House and the Senate. But—as I’m sure many of you are aware—that could change in a heartbeat with what is shaping up to be one of the closest midterm elections in recent memory.”
Beside me, Asher withdrew a roll of duct tape from his bag. Henry made a slight choking sound, which I translated to mean, Dear God, who gave Asher that duct tape and what is he planning on doing with it?
At the front of the room, Dr. Clark resumed her perch on the edge of her desk. “So,” she continued, “let’s see what factors you foresee affecting the very balance of power in this country.” She unfolded the answers, one by one. “Jobs. Health care. Immigration.” She sorted the answers as she read them, pulling out and saving a few for later. “Jobs again. Terrorism. The economy. Terrorism. Defense.
“And now things get interesting.” Dr. Clark went on to the slips she’d pulled out of sequence. “Ideology. Religion. Voter turnout.” She paused. “Not exactly what I meant by issue, but undoubtedly true, Ms. Rhodes.”
Near the front of the room, Asher’s twin sister tossed her strawberry-blond ponytail over one shoulder. Somehow, I wasn’t surprised she’d written her name on her answer. Emilia Rhodes believed in giving credit where credit was due—particularly if it was due to her.
“Last three,” Dr. Clark announced. “Presidential approval rating.” Her gaze flickered briefly toward my side of the room—to Henry. “Transparency.” She moved on to the next-to-last sheet, then ended with mine. “And corruption.” She paused. “Mr. Rhodes, while I’m sure you do a passable Houdini impression, I would prefer you not duct-tape your hands together during class.”
Asher gave her his most charming smile. “Your wish is my command.” He did a good job of pretending his hands weren’t half taped together already.
Only Asher, I thought. But there was another part of my brain—the part where instinct and emotion blended together, where fight and flight lived in wait—that couldn’t help remembering a time when I’d been bound hand and foot.
I felt a light touch on my shoulder. Henry. I didn’t turn to look at him, but my gut said that he knew exactly where I’d been a moment before. I was held hostage by a rogue Secret Service agent. Thinking the words sapped the memory of some of its power. That rogue agent helped murder the chief justice of the Supreme Court. And the American public will never know.
Transparency wasn’t President Nolan’s strong suit.
The rest of the class period passed in a blur. When the final bell rang, I stood.
“About that grudge-holding yearbook editor—” Asher started to say, but before he could recommence wheedling, he was summarily cut off.
“You owe me a favor.” Emilia Rhodes wasn’t a person who bothered with words as mundane as hello. She was as intense as Asher was laid-back—and she was, unfortunately, correct.
I did owe her a favor.
“What do you want?” I asked Emilia.
She hooked an arm through mine. “Walk with me.” She didn’t speak again until we’d made it to the hallway. “Tomorrow during chapel, they’ll be taking student council nominations.”
“In November?” I asked.
“Student council elections take place on Election Day.” Emilia executed a delicate little shrug. “Hardwicke tradition.”
Hardwicke wasn’t a normal school. Most days, it didn’t even pretend to be.
“The next student council term begins in January,” Emilia continued. “I intend to be president. You have a certain amount of . . . influence”—it pained Emilia to say that word—“at this school, particularly among freshmen and miscellaneous social misfit types. When the headmaster calls for nominations tomorrow morning, I want you to nominate me. Maya will second your nomination.”
I waited for the catch. “That’s it?” I said, when none was forthcoming. “Nominate you for student council president, and we’re even?”
Emilia gave a roll of her blue-green eyes. “No. You’ll nominate me, and then you’ll make sure I win, and then we’ll be even.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “And how am I supposed to make sure you win?”
“How do you do anything?” Emilia shot back. “I’m not asking for a miracle here, Tess. I’m qualified for the job. I’m in good social standing. I have the right connections. And you know I’ll do a better job than John Thomas Wilcox.”
John Thomas was the horrible excuse for a human being who’d coerced the vice president’s daughter into taking those pictures. After I’d stopped him from sharing them, he’
d zeroed in on me as a target.
He was a predator and a coward, and even the sound of his name set my teeth on edge.
“John Thomas is your opponent?” I couldn’t keep my features from working their way into a scowl.
“One of them,” Emilia confirmed, thrusting out her chin. “In the past decade, Hardwicke has had only one female student council president. My parents are dentists. His father is the minority whip.” Emilia stopped walking and turned to face me head-on. “I intend to win this, Tess.”
The last time Emilia had attempted to hire me, it was to keep Asher out of trouble. Putting her in office over John Thomas Wilcox seemed like a less Herculean task—not to mention more enjoyable.
“Fine,” I said. “I help you win this election, and then we’re even.”
Emilia’s lips parted in a small smile. “Welcome to the campaign.”
CHAPTER 4
It took Bodie less than ten minutes after he picked me up to ferret out the finer details of my day. For someone I was fairly certain had committed his share of felonies, Ivy’s driver could do an impressive soccer mom impression when it came to pumping information out of me on the way to and from school.
“I doubt ‘student council campaign manager’ was what Keyes had in mind when he told you to get more involved at school.” Bodie flashed a smile at me.
“I agreed to Sunday night dinners and allowing him to publically acknowledge me as a Keyes,” I retorted. “Field hockey and debate were never a part of the deal.”
Bodie studied me for a moment, the way he always did when the subject of William Keyes came up. “If the old man starts to make noise about it,” he said, trying to mask the fact that he was taking mental notes on my well-being for Ivy, “you can always tell him you’re taking a page from the Keyes playbook and trying your hand at calling the shots behind the scenes.”
I grimaced. The last thing I needed was for the Hardwicke populace to decide that I was some sort of kingmaker-in-the-making.
“It’s a favor for a friend,” I said. “That’s it.”
“You’re a Kendrick,” Bodie told me, taking the turn toward Ivy’s house. “Favors for friends have a way of complicating themselves.”
Bodie slowed the car as we approached the driveway. In addition to being Ivy’s chauffeur, he was also her bodyguard—and mine. With casual efficiency, he surveyed the street in front of Ivy’s house, his gaze coming to rest on a car at the curb.
Since Ivy worked out of the bottom floor of our sprawling DC home, clients came and went with a fairly high frequency, but this car didn’t fit the profile of Ivy’s typical client. Beneath the grime, the vehicle was burnt orange—and clearly used. The windows weren’t bulletproof. I doubted its owner had ever even considered hiring a driver.
I glanced over at Bodie, trying to get a read on him. Did he recognize the car?
As he pulled into the driveway, his phone buzzed. A text, almost certainly from Ivy. Bodie read the message. A second passed. He put on his best poker face, then glanced back up at me. “How would you feel about ice cream?”
Bodie kept me out all afternoon. By the time we got back to Ivy’s house, it was dark outside, and the orange car had been joined by another vehicle. This one, I recognized.
“Adam’s here,” I said.
“So he is,” Bodie replied evenly.
If I wasn’t already wondering about my newfound uncle’s presence at the house, the fact that Bodie had missed an opportunity to refer to him as “Captain Pentagon” or “Mr. America” would have tipped me off that this wasn’t just business as usual. Bodie had no shortage of nicknames for anyone—and he considered mocking by-the-books Adam Keyes to be one of life’s finer pleasures.
Ivy called Adam in. She texted Bodie and told him to keep me away from the house. As I climbed out of the car and made my way into the foyer, I turned that over in my head.
Bodie slanted his gaze toward me as he shut the front door behind us. “If I told you to go upstairs and forget about all of this, you’d end up ignoring me, so do us both a favor, kitten, and just try not to let Ivy catch you down here.”
With that advice imparted, Bodie made for Ivy’s office himself. I heard the door open and close—and then, nothing.
First Adam, now Bodie.
Whatever was going down, it had Ivy calling in the troops.
CHAPTER 5
I didn’t go upstairs. I stood in the hallway just outside of Ivy’s office, staring at the door. I could hear the murmur of voices behind it, but couldn’t make out what they were saying.
Ivy’s job—her clients, the things she did on their behalf, the lines she was willing to cross—that was a portion of her life she kept from me, as best she could.
Logically, I understood that Ivy’s line of work required a guarantee of confidentiality and discretion. I also understood—logically—that she wanted to protect me. The last time I’d been involved in one of her cases, I’d been kidnapped.
But no amount of logical understanding could mute the sharp ache in my chest that I felt staring at a closed door, knowing that Ivy was the one who’d locked me out.
Some days, it felt like my whole life had been a series of doors I’d never had a choice about closing.
Ivy had shut the door on being my mother when she’d given me to her parents to raise as their own. She’d locked that door when she’d agreed to lie to me and thrown the deadbolt for good measure when I was four years old and she’d handed me—tears streaming down her cheeks in the wake of our parents’ funeral—to Gramps.
She’d cracked the door open when I was thirteen and then slammed it in my face.
Ivy had chosen to leave me. She’d chosen to shut me out of her life. She’d thrown up walls between us, because living the lie that she was my sister was too hard.
Logical or not, fair or not, that was what I thought of every time Ivy locked herself in her office and locked me out. I couldn’t push down the violent feeling roiling inside of me that said she’d lost the right to have secrets when she’d kept the biggest one from me.
Grow up, Tess. I forced myself to turn away from the office door, but instead of going upstairs to the apartment Ivy and I shared, I turned and walked toward the conference room. Like Ivy’s office, it was technically off-limits.
I wasn’t a person who paid much attention to technicalities.
I tested the knob, then pushed the conference room door inward, stepping over the threshold. Weeks ago, Ivy and I had stood in this room, looking at a trio of photographs she’d tacked onto the walls.
Three men—including a Secret Service agent and the White House physician—had conspired to kill Henry’s grandfather, Supreme Court Chief Justice Theodore Marquette. It was in this conference room that Ivy had told me she thought there was a fourth person involved, a conspirator who was still out there and whose identity we did not know. For one night, Ivy had let me in. She’d stopped trying to lock away the parts of herself she thought weren’t safe for me to know. She’d recognized that whether she liked it or not, the two of us were the same.
I wasn’t any more capable of sitting by and watching something bad happen than she was.
Walking over to the conference table, I closed my eyes, trying to remember exactly where Ivy had been sitting when we’d had that late-night discussion. I tried to picture the list of suspects on the table beside her—a dozen or so names, among them William Keyes.
No one—not Asher, not Henry, not Vivvie, whose father was the White House physician who’d helped kill Justice Marquette—knew that Ivy suspected there was a fourth player, one who’d engineered the attack on Justice Marquette and gotten away from the whole ordeal unscathed. I hadn’t mentioned Ivy’s theory to my friends. For their own protection, I’d kept them—and would continue to keep them—in the dark.
“You’re not supposed to be in here.”
I turned to see Adam standing in the doorway. My brain automatically searched for similarities—between Adam and me, betwee
n the kingmaker and his firstborn son.
“I’ve never really excelled at doing what I’m supposed to,” I said.
Adam gave me a look. If he’d been protective before I’d learned that he was my uncle, he was worse now that I knew the truth. “Try harder,” he ordered.
Adam was the type who played by the rules. I’d gathered that my father—his younger brother—had not been.
“Ivy has all her secrets locked away,” I said, turning back to the bare walls. “What does it matter if I come in here if there’s nothing left to see?”
Adam must have heard something in my voice, because he softened his own. “Tess—”
“I had dinner with your father last night.” Nothing shut Adam up faster than mentioning William Keyes. “He wants me to get more involved at Hardwicke.”
Adam gave me a long, considering look. “Do you want to get more involved at Hardwicke?”
“I want to know who Ivy’s talking to in there.”
“Tess.” This time, there was an edge in Adam’s voice—a warning. “Ivy isn’t the only one who wants you kept out of this.”
This as in her current case, or this as in the massive chunk of Ivy’s life from which I’d been barred?
“Tommy wasn’t a person who knew when to quit.” My uncle’s blue eyes held mine. “He wasn’t the type to sit back and think things through.”
“If he had been,” I pointed out quietly, “I wouldn’t be here.” I meant the words to sound flippant. They came out sounding rough.
“I loved my brother. And I see so much of him in you.” Adam’s voice was as rough as mine now. “I’ll be damned before I let you get tangled up in anything dangerous ever again.”
I tamped down on the rush of emotion those words provoked. “Dangerous?”
Silence.
“Who’s in there with Ivy?” I asked again.
Adam kneaded his temple. “Like talking to a wall,” he muttered.
“I can hear you,” I told him. “I’m standing right here.”
He crossed the room until he was toe-to-toe with me. He placed two fingers under my chin, angling my face up toward his. “Don’t push me on this,” he said quietly. “You won’t like the result.”
The Long Game Page 2