The Fixer (The Fixer #1)(25)

“Sadly, it did.”

“Henry! Tell him it didn’t.”

There was a beat of silence. “I see no alligators,” Henry allowed.

“Et tu, Henry?” Asher held a hand to his chest. Henry didn’t bat an eye. He was clearly used to the dramatics.

“You’re not wearing shoes,” he told his sister. His gaze went to Asher’s bare feet and then, briefly, to mine. “Why aren’t you wearing shoes?”

“We took them off,” Thalia clarified helpfully. Asher’s lips twitched slightly.

“Why did you take them off?” Henry went with a more specific question this time.

“Does a person really need a reason to take off their shoes?” I asked.

Henry’s head swiveled toward me. Yes, his disapproving eyebrows seemed to say. Yes, a person does.

“Tess,” Asher said with a flourish, “meet Henry. Henry, meet Tess.”

“We’ve met.” Henry clipped the words. I thought met was a pretty generous description of our encounter outside the church.

“I appreciate your sister’s assistance,” Henry told me stiffly, “but I think it’s time for the two of you to go.” Henry Marquette clearly didn’t want Ivy here—and just as clearly, he didn’t want me near his sister. He inclined his head slightly, staring down at me. “Don’t you agree?” The words were issued more like an order than a question.

I stood, brushing the grass off my legs. “You know, I think I do.”



I’d expected the crowd inside to have thinned, but if anything, it had gotten bigger. I found Ivy in the kitchen.

“Everything okay?” she asked me.

“Fine.”

“Bodie can drive you home,” Ivy offered. “I’ll stay through cleanup, but there’s no reason you have to.”

I nodded. Ivy might have needed me this morning, but now that she had a mission, she was fine. Within seconds, she had her cell in her hand, calling Bodie to pick me up. I made my way to the front door. When I opened it, I caught sight of a man on the front porch, clothed in formal military dress.

“Don’t. Embarrass. Me.” The man’s words weren’t meant for my ears. They were meant for the teenage girl standing next to him.

Vivvie.

She looked smaller, somehow, than she had the last time I’d seen her. Her eyes were bloodshot, her shoulders hunched, like her body was trying its best to collapse in on itself.

“Vivvie?” I said.

Her eyes—and the man’s—snapped up to mine. His face changed utterly, morphing into a solemn mix of sympathy and kindness.

Bedside manner, I thought, recognizing him from the news and remembering that he was a doctor—the White House physician. The man who’d treated Justice Marquette.

“Tess.” Vivvie struggled to smile. On anyone else, the expression might have looked natural, but Vivvie’s features weren’t made for small smiles. “Dad,” Vivvie continued, “this is Tess Kendrick. I told you about her. Tess, this is my father.”

Major Bharani gave me a quick once-over. “Of course,” he said smoothly. “It’s nice to meet you, Tess, though, of course, I wish the circumstances were better.”

Major Bharani told me good-bye and slipped inside. Vivvie started to follow him, but I stopped her.

“Are you okay?” I asked her quietly.

“That’s my line.” She managed another weak smile.

“Where were you this week?” I asked.

Vivvie looked down, then away. “I’ve been a little under the weather.”

Too sick to come to school, but not too sick to attend a wake? And not too sick for her father to order her not to embarrass him, like Vivvie was some kind of liability. Like she was something to be embarrassed about.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked Vivvie.

“I should go.” She couldn’t meet my eyes. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

All I could think as she disappeared into the house was that Vivvie was a miserable liar.





CHAPTER 20

That night, I did an internet search on Vivvie’s father. He was a decorated soldier, a former trauma surgeon in Afghanistan and Iraq. From what I could tell, he’d been the head of the White House medical clinic—and the president’s personal physician—for just over two years. Unable to get the image of Vivvie’s haunted expression out of my mind, I clicked on the video of Major Bharani’s statement to the press.

“It is with great sadness that I inform you that Chief Justice Theodore Marquette died on the table a little over an hour ago.” Now that I knew to look for it, I could see a resemblance—a faint one—between Vivvie and her father. “This was our second attempt to fix a blockage in the justice’s heart, and there were unforeseen complications with surgery. This country has lost a great man today. We ask that you respect his family’s privacy in this time of grief.”

Nothing in the twenty-second clip told me what was wrong with Vivvie. I thought back to World Issues, when I’d seen the clip for the first time—the stares directed at Vivvie, the way she’d gone stiff in her seat.

Her father had operated on one of our classmates’ relatives, and now Henry Marquette’s grandfather was dead. Did she think people would blame her?