The Fixer (The Fixer #1)(41)

Asher gave me a look. “Somehow, I find myself doubting that’s true.”

I felt Henry’s eyes on us then. I gave Asher a look.

“Vivvie Bharani has been absent for over a week.” Emilia didn’t bother with a hello. She slid into the seat next to Henry’s. “Last year, she was the only person in our grade other than me to have perfect attendance. Am I the only one who finds that strange?”

“Is that an expression of concern?” Asher asked his twin, arching an eyebrow at her.

“I can be concerned,” Emilia told him, sounding almost insulted. “I’m a very empathetic person.”

Asher and Henry exchanged a glance over her head. Clearly, empathy had never been Emilia’s strong suit.

“I heard Vivvie’s father got fired,” Emilia continued bluntly.

I darted a glance at Asher.

“And where might you have heard that?” he asked.

“From a freshman whose mom works at the Washington Post.”

The idea of people knowing that Vivvie’s father had lost his position at the White House made me queasy.

“I mean, technically, he wasn’t fired,” Emilia clarified. “He was reassigned. But precision of language has never been the gossip mill’s forte, and I guess anything’s a pretty big step down after the White House.”

Henry stood up abruptly. “Whatever position her father has or does not have, can we agree that has little to nothing to do with Vivvie?”

Emilia blanched as if he’d slapped her. “I thought you’d want to know.”

“Why would I?” Henry replied. His voice was calm, but I could see the tension in his neck. He had to have noticed the timing: Vivvie’s dad getting demoted shortly after operating on his grandfather.

Henry came around to my side of the table and slammed a piece of paper down in front of me. “My choice for nominee.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned and stalked toward the front of the room. I heard him ask Dr. Clark for permission to go to the bathroom.

Emilia shot Asher a bewildered look. “What was that?”

I moved to follow Henry. At my Montana high school, teachers guarded bathroom passes like they were the keys to the proverbial kingdom, but Hardwicke didn’t even have passes. Dr. Clark just let me go.

I caught up to Henry just as he reached the bathroom door.

“Can I help you?” he asked without turning around.

I didn’t reply immediately. Henry stood there, perfectly comfortable with the silence, until I broke it. “Thank you,” I said. “For standing up for Vivvie.”

Henry looked distinctly uncomfortable with my thanks. “It is possible,” he admitted, his voice taut, “that I know what it is like to have your family be the featured story on Hardwicke’s gossip circuit.”

If what we suspected was true, if it got out, Henry and Vivvie wouldn’t just be the subject of gossip at Hardwicke. Their families would be front-page news.

“It is also possible,” Henry continued, his back still to me, “that I suspect you might have had something to do with Vivvie’s father’s demotion.”

Henry was connecting the dots—too much, too fast. How? “Not everything is my fault,” I told him.

“Believe it or not, that wasn’t meant as criticism.” Henry turned to face me. “My mother breakfasts at the Roosevelt Hotel.” He waited for those words to register, but they meant nothing to me. “She thought she saw Vivvie there. This morning.”

It took me a moment to read between the lines. If Henry’s mother had seen Vivvie, she’d seen Vivvie’s bruises.

“I knew something was wrong. At the wake.” Henry’s jaw tightened. “I just didn’t know what.”

He’d seen Vivvie break down. Maybe he’d noticed her absence since.

“I knew something was wrong,” he said again, “and I did nothing. I was so focused on my own grief—”

“Pretty sure that at a wake for a loved one, you’re allowed to be focused on your own grief,” I told him.

I could feel him rejecting that logic. She was a classmate. She’d needed help. He’d missed it. Henry Marquette wasn’t a forgiving person—especially of himself.

“It is possible,” Henry said, his voice still sounding oddly formal, “that I might have misjudged you, Tess.”

He knew Vivvie’s dad was abusive. He thought I’d helped her. He thought I was the reason her father was no longer the president’s doctor.

That’s not even the half of it. I couldn’t tell him. It made me angry that I wanted to. It chafed that I cared that he’d misjudged me—and, more than anything, I could feel guilt nipping at my heels, ready to devour me whole for keeping the truth from him, for forcing his best friend to keep it from him.

“It’s possible,” I told him sharply, pushing down the mess of emotions churning in my gut and pulling back from the boy who’d caused them, “that I don’t really care whether you misjudge me or not.”





CHAPTER 33

That night, Ivy left me to my own devices. It was like she thought that by avoiding me, she could somehow make me magically forget everything I already knew about Justice Marquette’s death.

Fat chance of that happening.