The Long Game (The Fixer #2)(9)

We crossed the threshold into the building. All up and down the main corridor, teachers were ushering students into classrooms. A feeling of unease slithered down my spine.

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

Henry appeared beside me. From the expression on his face, it was clear that student council elections were the last thing on his mind. His jaw muscles were tensed, brown skin pulled taut across his cheekbones, his full lips set into a grim line.

“What’s going on?” I asked him as we stepped into the classroom. I could hear murmurs all around me, was vaguely aware of the teacher telling us to take our seats—but my attention was focused on Henry.

Wordlessly, he passed his cell phone to me. I forced myself to look at the screen.

BOMB DETONATES IN DC HOSPITAL

The headline froze the air in my lungs. I couldn’t inhale. I couldn’t exhale.

No matter what you see, Bodie had told me, no matter what you hear—you say nothing.





CHAPTER 8

I had no way of knowing if Walker Nolan’s problem had anything to do with what the media were calling an act of terrorism. I texted Ivy with shaky hands. I needed her to tell me she was okay. Ivy called Adam in on this one. Adam works for the Pentagon. Bodie told me not to say anything—

Ivy texted back less than a minute after I’d texted her. I’m fine. Can you get a ride home from school today?

In other words: she needed Bodie with her.

What’s going on? I texted back.

The reply came an instant later. Can you get a ride home from school today?

My Spanish teacher saw the cell phone in my hand but said nothing. I wasn’t the only one texting my parents.

Yes. I typed in my reply, pressing down on the urge to repeat my question to Ivy the way she’d repeated hers to me. Henry had a car. So did Emilia—and Asher was pretty liberal about “borrowing” it. I could manage a ride home from school.

I’d just spend the next six hours wondering what Ivy was doing that she needed Bodie with her.

Spanish class flew by, then physics. Since chapel had replaced my first-period English class, fifth period—the only class I shared with John Thomas Wilcox—came quickly.

“Word on the street is that you’re helping Emilia Rhodes with her campaign.” John Thomas clearly wasn’t having any trouble shaking off the news of the bombing. The rest of the school was on edge, a pallor cast over the student body at the reminder that bad things could and did happen close to home. The expression on John Thomas’s face was appropriately somber, but mismatched to the glint in his eyes.

“Just like your sister helped President Nolan with his campaign,” John Thomas continued. “And look how well that turned out. Nolan has made a mess of national security. Whatever casualties there are today, that blood is on your precious president’s hands—and your sister’s.”

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

“Class is starting.” Henry took the seat in front of me and leveled a stare at John Thomas. “Eyes to the front, Wilcox.”

“Protective, isn’t he?” John Thomas asked me. “You do have a way with the opposite sex.”

Among the limited tricks in John Thomas’s repertoire was suggesting that I’d cemented my position at Hardwicke by sleeping my way through the junior class. He’d never managed to get a rise out of me on the topic, but that didn’t keep him from trying.

Mr. Wesley—who taught Speaking of Words, the Hardwicke version of “speech”—seemed to sense that today wasn’t a good day to even attempt a lecture. He put on a video of a poetry slam and turned off the lights.

“Girls like you, women like your sister—they’re only good for one thing,” John Thomas whispered. “And it’s not running campaigns.”

“Mr. Wilcox,” the teacher called out. “Watch the video.”

John Thomas let his eyes linger on me. “I’m watching.”





CHAPTER 9

“Sources are reporting that there were no casualties in today’s bombing—thanks, in large part, to an anonymous tip that Homeland Security received last night about this woman.”

The moment World Issues had started, Dr. Clark had dimmed the lights and turned on the news. In sharp contrast to the video in Speaking of Words, everyone’s attention was focused on the screen now.

This woman. The picture that accompanied the anchor’s words was a profile shot, taken from a distance. The woman was young—dark hair, fair skin, athletic build.

“While the Nolan administration has issued no confirmation of the woman’s identity, documents leaked to the press suggest she was a medical researcher living in Bethesda under the name Daniela Nicolae. It is unclear at this time whether or not that is her actual name.”

At the front of the classroom, Dr. Clark watched us watching the news report. I glanced at Henry, whose eyes were locked on the screen, then at Asher, who was sitting as still as I’d ever seen him. Beside me, Vivvie’s fingers worried at the sleeve of her blazer, her dark brown eyes cast downward.

“No casualties. A suspect in custody. I don’t see how this is anything other than a victory for the current administration.”

While I’d been assessing my friends, the program had switched to a “he said, she said” format. Pundits sat to either side of the anchor. He had no sooner given his opinion than she chimed in.