The Fixer

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.

 

“Tess.” I could tell by the tone in Vivvie’s voice that she’d said my name more than once.

 

I blinked. In addition to Vivvie’s bodyguard, we now had three other visitors: Asher, Henry, and a woman who was almost certainly Henry’s bodyguard.

 

Asher sat down on the sofa beside me. I couldn’t even summon the energy to shove him off the sofa.

 

“Vivvie told us.” Henry didn’t specify what she had told them.

 

If, if, if . . .

 

“I am sorry about your sister,” Henry told me. “For what it’s worth, I have to believe she has a contingency plan of some sort.”

 

A rush of anger went through my body, and with it, came my voice. “You’re the authority, aren’t you? On Ivy? She can’t be trusted and all that?”

 

“Tess.” Henry knelt next to me. “You have to know, I never would have wanted—”

 

“Wouldn’t you?” I sat up, then stood, all in one motion. He could stay kneeling for all I cared. “You did this,” I told Henry. “If you hadn’t opened your mouth with the reporter, if you hadn’t insisted on going to that state dinner, then I might have been here, in DC! I might not have gotten taken, and Ivy would never have had to trade herself for me. You did this,” I told Henry.

 

Henry stood and took a step back.

 

“Hey!” Asher objected, but I barely heard him.

 

“We did this,” I said, my eyes still locked on to Henry’s. “She’s going to die. I did that. I did—”

 

Henry stood. “You were right the first time,” he said. “Blame me. If you have to blame someone, blame me.”

 

If, if, if . . .

 

“She didn’t even let me say good-bye.” I sounded small and broken and weak. I didn’t know how to sound any other way.

 

“No.” That word burst out of Vivvie with the strength of a small whirlwind. “You don’t get to blame yourself,” she told me, her voice vibrating with emotions I recognized all too well. “Blaming yourself is easy. Blaming other people is, too. You think that I don’t think about the fact that if I hadn’t said anything, if I’d just kept my mouth closed, my father might still be alive? You think it wouldn’t be easier to hate myself for that? To hate you? To hate Ivy? You have a choice, Tess, and you don’t get to make the easy one, because if you give up, if you can’t make it through this—what chance do I have?” Her eyes shone with tears, but she didn’t shed them. “You don’t get to check out. You don’t get to give in. You can’t.”

 

My eyes were drawn back to the clock again. How many hours did Ivy have left? “I don’t want to give up,” I said softly, “but I don’t know what else to do.”

 

“What would your sister do?” Asher’s question hurt, but instead of shrinking from it, I absorbed the pain. I let myself feel it, and then, I made myself use it.

 

What would Ivy do?

 

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