It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that it would happen again. For as long as she was Ivy Kendrick, there would always be people who saw me as a path to her. No matter how hard Ivy tried to keep me out, there would always be times when I knew things I shouldn’t.
Daniela Nicolae works for a terrorist group that specializes in infiltrating governments and other terrorist groups. My brain didn’t stop there. It’s not a coincidence that her time in Doctors Without Borders overlapped Walker Nolan’s. It can’t be.
I didn’t say any of that out loud. “Were they involved?” I asked instead. “Walker Nolan and that woman they have in custody.”
That was a stab in the dark, but Ivy’s lack of response told me it had been a good one. I turned that over in my head. The fact that Walker had come to Ivy in the first place suggested that he wasn’t part of this group. But for all we knew, Nicolae’s assignment could have been trying to convert him.
“Walker found out what his girlfriend was doing,” I said, putting the pieces together. “He found the plans for the bombing, and he came to you. Why didn’t he go straight to his father?”
There was another silence, but this time Ivy was the one who broke it. “The goal was to keep the president’s hands as clean as possible, given the circumstances.”
The circumstances being that the president’s son was involved—quite possibly intimately involved—with a member of a terrorist organization.
“Your job is to keep this quiet.” I looked from Ivy to Adam to Bodie.
“Once the terrorist was in custody, I briefed the president.” Ivy measured her words. “This is coming out,” she said bluntly. “The ball is rolling. People are talking. It’s only a matter of time before someone obtains proof. My job,” she said emphatically, “is to make sure it doesn’t come out until after the polls close next Tuesday.”
Until after midterm elections.
Presidential approval rating. Transparency. Corruption. I imagined what the redheaded pundit I’d seen on the news would have to say if she knew there was a connection between this terrorist group and Walker Nolan. Any hint of a scandal could sway the results of midterm elections. But something like this? The president would lose his majority in the House and the Senate. He’d lose any chance at a second term himself.
“I should get to work,” Ivy said. I heard the words buried underneath: I’ve told you everything I can tell you. I’ve told you more than I should.
I understood where she was coming from. Logically.
Ivy walked me to the bottom of the stairs. I could see her, wanting to say something, not knowing what to say. I could also feel her wanting to get rid of me, needing to pursue the lead that Priya had given her.
I mattered to Ivy. But there were times when her job had to matter more.
“Just for the record,” I said as I started climbing the stairs, “there’s a decent chance you might get a call from the Hardwicke headmaster sometime in the next couple of days.”
There was a beat of silence. “I don’t want to know,” Ivy decided.
It was probably better that way. She had her job—and I had mine.
CHAPTER 18
It took thirty-six hours for our little social media experiment to come to the headmaster’s attention. On Friday morning, I was called into his office.
Mrs. Perkins gave me a sympathetic look. “Tess, dear, there are times when it’s best not to poke a hornet’s nest,” she advised.
I didn’t reply.
Mrs. Perkins sighed. “Go on in.”
The headmaster was standing at his window. “Sit,” he said without turning around.
I sat and leaned back in my chair, balancing it on two legs. The headmaster’s silence was probably aimed at making me sweat, but thus far, things were going exactly according to plan. While I waited for Headmaster Raleigh to tell me that my behavior was unfitting of a Hardwicke student, my eyes found their way to the wall behind his desk. It was bare.
The front legs of my chair thudded against the floor.
Weeks ago, there had been a framed photograph on that wall—of Headmaster Raleigh and five other men, taken at a Camp David retreat. All three of the known conspirators in the murder of Justice Marquette had been there that weekend. It was entirely possible that the fourth co-conspirator—the one whose identity we didn’t know—had been there as well.
The headmaster took the photo down. I tried not to read too much into that.
Headmaster Raleigh turned away from the window. He took a seat at his desk and turned his desktop computer screen to face me. “What is the meaning of this?”
This was a series of pictures—representing more than 80 percent of the female students in grades nine through twelve—like the ones Vivvie and I had taken in her bathroom. Slumped. Unfocused. Seemingly drunk—and holding a sign.
“You—all of you—will take these pictures down, or I will have the lot of you up on misconduct charges.”