The Fixer (The Fixer #1)(20)

The boy with the glint in his eye dropped my wrist. He laughed. “Just kidding around with Tess here.”

Asher snagged another bite of my cupcake. “Such a kidder, that Tess,” he said jovially. “A constant riot. Keeps me in stitches, she does.”

The boy blinked several times. “You two are . . .”

“Friends,” Asher declared. He tried for another bite of my cupcake. I blocked his hand with my fork, a little harder than necessary.

I didn’t need rescuing.

“We’re not friends,” I told Asher.

“Our bond goes far beyond friendship,” Asher agreed pleasantly. “Epics will be written. Bards will sing.” He turned back to the boy across from us. “Any interest in playing the role of the bard?”

Not surprisingly, the answer to that question was no. The boy made a hasty exit. He and his hangers-on retreated to a table near Emilia’s. She turned around and went back to holding court at her own table, head held high.

“John Thomas Wilcox,” Asher told me quietly. “His father’s the minority whip.”

I wasn’t sure what one was supposed to say in response to that, so I said nothing.

“I see you’re the strong and silent type,” Asher said sagely. “I never shut up, so we’re going to get along smashingly.”

“I was fine,” I told him. “You could have stayed with your friends.”

Despite his “best friend” being absent, Asher seemed to have had no shortage of companionship the past few days. He ate lunch at a different table every day, like a king spreading the wealth among his people.

“It wasn’t you I was worried about,” Asher returned easily. “There was murder in your eyes, and, let’s face it, John Thomas’s face is too pretty for the maiming I’m sure he so richly deserved.”

Emilia had tried to hire me to keep her brother out of trouble for a few days. I wondered if she’d figured out yet that I was the last person anyone should think was qualified for that job.

Trouble always had a way of finding me.





CHAPTER 17

Five minutes before the final bell cut us loose for the day, I got pulled into the headmaster’s office.

“Tess,” he said. “Can I call you Tess?”

“Knock yourself out.”

He folded his hands in front of him on the desk. “I’m afraid we’ve received some complaints.”

I waited for him to elaborate. He waited for me to say something. I was better at waiting than he was.

“Serious allegations have been made. Bullying. Blackmail. Theft.”

Again, the headmaster paused, and again, I said nothing. The only person who had reason to accuse me of theft was John Thomas Wilcox. The idea of him reporting me to the administration for anything was pretty rich. He must have been betting on the fact that I wouldn’t report him in return.

Unfortunately, that was a good bet. If Anna Hayden had wanted the administration involved in her situation, she would have gone to them herself.

“Now, you’re new here,” the headmaster continued. “And I believe in giving students the benefit of the doubt, but it would help us put this unfortunate business behind us if you would allow us to search your locker.”

“For what?” The cell phone? Did John Thomas really think I was stupid enough to keep it on the premises?

The fact that I’d finally broken my silence seemed to energize Headmaster Raleigh. “I’m not at liberty to share the details of the allegations. In an effort to discourage bullying, Hardwicke has an open-door policy. We encourage students to report any trouble they’re having and guarantee confidentiality during investigations.”

In theory, that might have been a good practice. In reality, it was a system ripe for abuse.

“I despise bullying,” I told the headmaster. “And bullies. You might say that’s something my sister and I have in common.”

Invoking Ivy had exactly the effect I had thought it would. Headmaster Raleigh’s jaw clenched slightly. If his last interaction with Ivy was any indication, he had a healthy amount of fear of my sister’s reach. Either she already had dirt on him, or he was afraid she’d dig some up.

The headmaster offered me a peppermint, then forced a smile. “If you would just allow me to conduct a simple search—”

“No,” I said. “I don’t think I will.”

Behind the headmaster’s desk, there was a photo. As a vein in his forehead began to throb, I counted the number of people in it: three in the back row, two in the front, one off to the side. Headmaster Raleigh was standing between a balding man in his fifties and a slightly older man with a shock of white hair. I recognized the older man instantly.

William Keyes.

“I don’t need your permission to search your locker.” The headmaster’s tone drew my attention back in his direction. This, I inferred from the rise in volume, was supposed to be the voice of authority.

If you didn’t need my permission, I thought, then why did you ask for it?

“I thought Hardwicke respected the privacy of all of its students,” I said. That was what he’d told Ivy. The wealthy and politically elite sent their children here because it was secure and discreet. I had a feeling that random locker searches wouldn’t sit well with the Board of Trustees—and unless Raleigh had something more solid than a vague, anonymous complaint, it would be easy enough to make any search he conducted of my locker look random.