The Fixer (The Fixer #1)(84)

We didn’t get a vote.

“We’ll find Kostas,” the president said. “We’ll find Ivy. The important thing, in the meantime, is for you to back off. Whoever Bodie has working on this, I want them out. Now. This has become a matter of national security.”

“If anything happens to Ivy,” Adam began.

“It won’t,” the president said, in that voice that said Trust me, believe me, follow me.

I didn’t trust him. I didn’t believe him. I wasn’t following, not if it meant sitting back and waiting for that bomb to go off.

“If anything does happen to Ivy,” Adam said, “it won’t be good for this administration.” He paused. His tone was respectful. It was the pause that made it seem like a threat. “If Ivy doesn’t get to a computer in the next twenty-four hours, it won’t be good for anyone.”

The president stood. “We’re working on that, too.”

Meaning what? I thought. That he’s working on finding a way to dismantle Ivy’s fail-safe? To make sure that whatever secrets her program is set to release don’t get released?

“Have you even looked at the case?” I asked the president. I could hear the strain in my own voice. “Kostas’s son,” I said, forcing myself to continue. “Have you looked at his appeal? Adam said he had a brain injury—”

“Miss Kendrick,” the president said. “Tess.” His expression was grave. “I care for your sister. So does my wife. You have this administration’s sympathy, our regrets, and our promise that we are doing everything we can to get Ivy home.”

Not everything.

His next words proved that. “But the United States does not negotiate with terrorists—and neither do I.”





CHAPTER 61

If push came to shove, if the president couldn’t find Ivy before time ran out—he wasn’t going to negotiate. He was going to let Kostas blow her up.

It should have been me. I should have been the one Kostas was holding captive. Ivy should have been the one standing here with Adam, trying to find a way around the president’s hard line. It should have been me. It was supposed to be me.

“Go,” I told Adam, swallowing back the urge to say all of that out loud. “I can’t do anything, but maybe you can.”

What Adam was—or wasn’t—to me could wait.

Ivy’s the one who should be having this conversation with you, he’d said. We’ll tell you everything, I promise—

“Go,” I told Adam again, my voice sharper this time, louder.

“I’m not leaving you here alone,” he said.

“So don’t leave me alone,” I said, trying not to replay the president’s words over and over again in my mind. “I hear Vivvie has a bodyguard now.”


? ? ?

Vivvie’s suite at the Roosevelt Hotel was impressive. There were massive bedrooms, a sitting room, a living room, a state-of-the-art kitchen.

“What does your aunt do?” I asked Vivvie, ignoring the elephant in the room. Or maybe the elephants, plural.

“I’m not really sure,” Vivvie replied. “She works overseas. Or worked. Or . . .” Vivvie punctuated that sentence with a shrug.

I wondered if Vivvie was thinking, like I was, of my first day at Hardwicke, when I’d had to ask her what Ivy did for a living.

Ivy with a bomb strapped to her chest. The memory of that image came over me with no warning. It felt like someone had thrust a hand into my chest, like there was a vise around my heart. I couldn’t think, and I couldn’t breathe.

“Hey, Tess?” Vivvie said. I forced air into my lungs. Vivvie’s face was shadowed with the toll the past few weeks had taken. I wanted to push her away, but I couldn’t, because we were the same.

“Yeah?”

Vivvie reached out and grabbed my hand. “The offer about my favorite romance novel and/or horror movie,” she said, her voice hoarse with all the things neither one of us could bear to say. “It still stands.”



Adam didn’t come for me that night. I slept on the sofa, even though Vivvie offered to share her king-size bed. It felt wrong for me to be with people when Ivy had no one but the man who might kill her for company. It felt wrong to even be lying on the sofa when Ivy had a bomb strapped to her chest.

If I’d thought it wouldn’t raise questions, I would have slept on the cold, hard floor.

If I hadn’t gotten snatched, if I’d been more suspicious when I’d seen an orderly outside my grandfather’s room, if I’d fought back harder, if I’d been stronger—

If, if, if, then Ivy might be okay.

The next morning came and went. I couldn’t bring myself to get up.

If I hadn’t gone to the state dinner, Ivy wouldn’t have flipped out and sent me to Boston. And if I hadn’t gone to Boston, I would have been at my more-secure-than-most-consulates private school instead of outside my grandfather’s room.

If, if, if . . .

Vivvie tried to get me to sit up, but I couldn’t move, couldn’t take my eyes off the clock, masochistically watching the minute hand crawl along, closer and closer to Ivy’s final hours.

At some point, Vivvie went to the door. I heard murmuring, but my gaze stayed fixed on the clock.