The Fixer (The Fixer #1)(17)

A round of groans went around the room. Once we’d handed in our assignment, she turned on a flat-screen television at the front of the room—to CNN.

“Prepare wisely,” Dr. Clark said.

Prepare for what? I wondered.

“Debates,” Vivvie told me helpfully.

“We are at the mercy of the daytime cable news channel gods,” Asher elaborated, twirling a pencil in his fingers like a miniature baton. “Whatever issue the pundits are discussing, we’re discussing.”

All around the room, people were taking furious notes. I had no idea what the people on the screen were talking about. Five minutes in, I stopped even trying to decipher it, until the show cut one of its hosts off midsentence.

“Breaking news,” the television declared. A wave of unease went through the room as the news feed cut to a man in a military uniform, issuing a statement. All eyes in the room went immediately to me.

No. Not to me, I realized. To Vivvie.

It took me a moment to process the fact that the caption under the man’s name listed his rank (major), his position (White House physician), and his last name.

Bharani.

“It is with great sadness,” the man on-screen said, “that I inform you that Chief Justice Theodore Marquette died on the table a little over an hour ago. This was our second attempt to fix a blockage in the justice’s heart, and there were unforeseen complications with surgery.”

Beside me, Vivvie was sitting very, very still. Asher stiffened. The rest of the room broke into murmurs.

On the screen, Major Bharani continued. “This country has lost a great man today. We ask that you respect his family’s privacy in this time of grief.”





CHAPTER 14

Justice Marquette’s death was big news at Hardwicke. From what I could gather, the still-absent Henry Marquette was well liked—and he’d lost his father the year before. Add to that the number of Hardwicke parents who were politicians, journalists, lobbyists, or otherwise entangled with the Powers That Be in Washington, and a dead Supreme Court justice wasn’t just news. It was a game changer.

It was personal.

“Tea?” The question snapped me from my thoughts. Ivy poured herself a cup as she waited for a reply.

“No,” I bit back. “Thank you.”

Ivy took a sip of her tea, her eyes never leaving mine. “We could order something else if you’d like.”

Somehow, my sister had taken my I don’t want your cookies speech the day before to mean I would prefer to go out for afternoon tea.

“I’m fine,” I told her through gritted teeth. All around us, women chatted with each other over delicate pastries. I could practically taste the gentility in the tea room air.

Ivy picked up a delicate silver spoon and stirred her tea contemplatively. “Scone?” she asked.

I just stared at her. “What are we doing here?”

“I’m eating a scone,” Ivy replied. “When I figure out what you’re doing, I’ll let you know.”

I got the feeling that I could hurl obscenities at her, and she’d just keep on sipping her tea.

“What do you want?” After the day I’d had, I was too mentally frayed to beat around the bush.

“I want you to give DC a chance.” Ivy waited for those words to sink in before continuing. “I won’t ask you to give me one. I’m not sure I deserve it. But you do, Tessie. You deserve to have a life here.”

“I had a life,” I told her sharply. “I was . . .” Happy? I couldn’t make my lips form the word. “I was fine.”

“When I left you there,” Ivy said, “three years ago, when I left you with Gramps, I thought I was doing the right thing. For you.”

Then why did you invite me to live with you in the first place? I refused to say the words out loud. When I was thirteen, I’d tried to ask her why. I’d called, and she hadn’t answered. I’d called again and again, and she hadn’t answered. A month later, she’d called to wish me a happy birthday, like nothing was wrong.

After that, I stopped calling her, and I stopped asking why.

Across from me, Ivy began applying clotted cream to her scone. “What do you want, Tess?”

“Not tea and crumpets,” I muttered. “That’s for damn sure.”

An older lady at the table next to us shot me a dirty look. I stared down at the lace tablecloth.

“I didn’t ask you what you don’t want,” Ivy informed me. “I asked what you do want. Don’t think of this as a heart-to-heart. Think of it as a negotiation. I want you to give this arrangement a chance.” Ivy’s voice never changed—not in volume, not in tone. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll see what I can do.”

I wanted to go home. I wanted Gramps to come home. But even the great Ivy Kendrick couldn’t turn back the clock. She couldn’t make him well.

“Have you heard from the doctors?” My voice sounded dull to my own ears.

“I got an update this morning.” Ivy set her tea down. “He’s got some cognitive impairment, disorientation, mood swings.”

I thought of Gramps yelling, demanding to know what I’d done with his wife.

“He has good days,” I told Ivy.

Her voice was gentle. “They’re going to get fewer and farther between. There are some treatment possibilities. A clinical trial, for one.”