The Long Game (The Fixer #2)(8)

Dangerous. The word Adam had used the day before echoed in my mind.

My stomach tightened. “I won’t.”

After two or three seconds, Ivy’s driver gave a slight nod. “Get out of here,” he said, jerking his head toward the school. “And good luck with the campaign.”

“We’ll begin with nominations for class presidents and then proceed to the school-wide offices.” The Hardwicke headmaster was a small man with glasses, a finely tuned sense of his own importance, and a voice that carried. “Are there nominations for freshman class president?”

The nominations began to trickle in, and I leaned back in my seat. Once a month, the entire Hardwicke Upper School was shuffled into the chapel for an all-school meeting. Today’s meeting, as Emilia had indicated, was devoted to the upcoming student council elections.

It was hard to bring myself to care about student council when my gut said that Ivy was on the verge of something big—something awful.

No matter what you see, no matter what you hear—you say nothing.

Bodie’s warning lingered in my head. Each time I went back over the words, they were more chilling. What exactly did Bodie think I might see or hear that would cause me to say something about Walker Nolan’s visit to our house?

Why does the president’s son need Ivy’s services?

Adam worked for the Pentagon. Since I’d moved to DC, he’d only consulted with Ivy on one other case: the assassination of Justice Marquette.

No matter what you see, no matter what you hear—

“And now we’ll open up nominations for student-body president.” Headmaster Raleigh’s voice broke through my thoughts. My whole body felt stiff, and I wondered how long I’d been sitting there, playing Bodie’s warning over and over in my head.

“The office of student-body president is open to any junior in good academic standing,” the headmaster continued with the solemnity of a jury foreman delivering a verdict. “I encourage you to think long and hard about who will best represent both you as a student body and the principles of the Hardwicke School.”

There was a moment of silence, broken by Asher rising to his feet and calling out, “Hear ye, hear ye!”

The headmaster did a good impression of someone who was developing a migraine. “Mr. Rhodes,” he acknowledged. “A bit less with the dramatics, if you please.”

In response, Asher placed one hand over his heart. “I, Asher Rhodes, being of reasonably sound body and mind, do hereby nominate the honorable—and, I might add, ridiculously good-looking—Henry Marquette.”

Asher really didn’t know the meaning of the word less.

“Who among you stands with me?” he asked, punching both fists into the air.

It occurred to me then that Emilia had told me that John Thomas would be one of her opponents.

As Henry’s nomination was seconded, Emilia caught my eyes and gave a small shrug. Clearly, she still expected me to hold up my end of the bargain.

“Do you accept this nomination?” the headmaster asked Henry.

“I’ll accept,” Henry said, “if and only if Asher agrees to never refer to me as good-looking again.”

I snorted.

“I regret nothing!” Asher yelled.

A second later, someone called out, “I nominate John Thomas Wilcox.”

The lacrosse player who’d been so fond of hazing—until I’d shut him down—seconded the nomination.

“I am John Thomas Wilcox,” John Thomas said, with what passed as a good-natured grin, “and I accept this nomination.”

That got a few snickers.

“The floor remains open,” the headmaster declared. “Do we have a third nomination?”

Emilia shot laser eyes at me. After returning her glare, I stood up.

“Ms. Kendrick,” the headmaster said. “Err . . . Keyes,” he corrected himself. “Tess.”

My last name was still a matter of some contention.

“Do you have a nomination?” Raleigh asked me.

I avoided looking at Henry as I answered, “I nominate Emilia Rhodes.”





CHAPTER 7

“Blackmail or bribe?” Asher caught up to me on the way back to the main building after chapel let out.

I didn’t answer.

“Blackmail or bribe?” Asher repeated. “Because I have some serious doubts that you were overcome by a swell of civic admiration for my twin, lovely though she may be.”

Right now, lovely wasn’t a word I would have used to describe Emilia Rhodes.

“My dearest, darling sister didn’t happen to mention she was running against Henry, did she?” Asher asked.

“She left that tidbit out,” I said dryly.

Vivvie popped up on my other side. “Henry’s been our class president since kindergarten. Everyone figured he was a shoo-in for student-body president this year.”

“You guys had a class president in kindergarten?” I asked incredulously.

Asher nodded. “Henry was the only five-year-old to run on a three-pronged platform.”

I honestly couldn’t tell if Asher was joking or not.

“The third prong,” Asher continued, “was cookies.”

We hit the door to the main building a second before the art teacher came striding out. “Inside,” he called. “Get to class, everyone.” The teacher’s whole body was as tight as a rubber band on the verge of snapping.