“I’ve been instructed to hold the girl until—”
Adam cut her off. “You’ll want to review those instructions. I’m sure Tess’s sister has already told you she’ll be filing a complaint. I suggest you not compound the situation.”
Without waiting for a reply, Adam put a hand on my shoulder and steered me out the door. Once we’d put some distance between us and the building, I let myself ask: “Ivy called you?”
“She did.” He gave my shoulder a light squeeze, then dropped his hand to his side. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” As we hit the parking lot, my brain caught up with me, and I came to a halt. “Bodie—”
“Ivy will take care of it.” There wasn’t an ounce of uncertainty in Adam’s voice. “Maybe a few hours behind bars will improve Bodie’s disposition.”
I almost managed a smile at the deadpan with which Adam issued that statement.
Almost.
“What’s happening?” I asked point-blank. “Why did they bring Bodie in for questioning? Questioning about what?”
Adam seemed to be weighing the chances that I would let this go. He must have decided they weren’t good, because he answered. “It appears some evidence has come to light linking Bodie to an unsolved crime.”
Adam didn’t specify what the evidence was—or what the crime was. I waited until we were situated in his car, me in the passenger seat and him behind the wheel, before I spoke again. “When I asked Ivy what was going on, she said someone was trying to prove a point. What point?”
A tick in Adam’s jaw was the only tell to the fact that my question had hit a nerve. “What point?” he repeated. “That he can get to Bodie.” Adam stared out the windshield, the muscle in his jaw ticking again. “That he can get to you. That there are costs to being difficult and standing against his wishes.”
“Your father.” I didn’t phrase it as a question. The First Lady had said that William Keyes could hold a grudge, that there would be fallout if he thought Ivy was going to challenge his pick for the nomination.
If Georgia Nolan knows that Ivy is in Arizona looking into Pierce, what are the chances that Adam’s father knows the same?
I thought of the way the cop had thrown Bodie onto the hood of the car—harder than necessary. I thought about the fact that the police had called Social Services to pick me up instead of Ivy.
“So this is what?” I asked. “Payback?”
The muscles in Adam’s neck tensed. “This was a warning shot,” Adam corrected tersely. “My father collects things: information, people, blackmail material. He wants Ivy to remember what he’s capable of.”
Bodie had insisted that Ivy had cleared William Keyes of involvement in the justice’s murder, but—
Keyes wants Pierce to get the nomination. He organized the retreat where Pierce and Major Bharani met.
“Ivy will take care of it,” Adam told me for a second time. His eyes darkened as he pulled out onto the road. “And I’ll take care of my father.”
CHAPTER 45
Ivy arrived home that night. I’d just gotten out of the shower when she knocked on my door. Running a towel over my hair, then tossing it aside, I answered the knock.
From the look on Ivy’s face, I had a pretty good idea what she wanted to talk about.
“Let me guess,” I said. “You want to chat about my little adventure this afternoon?”
Ivy inclined her head slightly. “Can I come in?”
I stepped back from the doorway. “Knock yourself out.” I combed my fingers through my wet hair, working out kinks as I went.
“Here,” Ivy said, sitting down on my bed. “Let me.”
At first, I had no idea what she was talking about, and then she picked a brush up off my nightstand.
Ivy sits on the edge of my bed. I sit on the floor in front of her. The memory hit me just as hard this time as it had the last. Ivy murmuring softly to me. Ivy’s fingers deftly working their way through my hair.
“You used to braid my hair.” I hadn’t meant to say that out loud.
Emotion danced around the edges of Ivy’s features. “Mom preferred pigtails,” she said. “High on your head.” She shook her head slightly, a soft smile coming over her face. “Even when you were tiny, you’d never met a pair of pigtails you couldn’t demolish. A braid was a little sturdier.”
“You stayed with me,” I said, the words catching in my throat. “After the funeral, you stayed with me.”
“For a few weeks,” Ivy replied, her voice difficult to read. “Then Gramps came, and . . .”
And she’d given me away. I couldn’t blame twenty-one-year-old Ivy for that—and I wouldn’t have given up the years I’d had with Gramps, not for anything.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said. “About the clinical trial.”
My throat went dry, just saying the words. It was easier, in a twisted way, to think about murder and politics and what Vivvie and Henry were going through than to think about my own situation.