“These people killed John Thomas!” The words ripped their way out of my mouth. I hurt, just saying them. “Emilia accused Dr. Clark, and do you know what she said? She said that it wasn’t her idea. That she’s not the one who pulled the trigger. But she didn’t deny that Senza Nome was behind it.”
“I didn’t know.” Henry’s reply was guttural. I barely heard it. “About John Thomas, about his father. Until this weekend, I never even suspected—”
“I had John Thomas’s blood on my hands,” I choked out. “And you . . .”
He’d washed it off. He’d given me his shirt. He’d taken care of me.
“I didn’t know,” Henry repeated. “I swear it. No one was supposed to get hurt.”
I heard what Henry wasn’t saying. No one was supposed to get hurt here.
Henry had told me that his grandfather’s death had taught him that the people in power couldn’t always be trusted. I’d kept the truth about the conspiracy from him for fear of what he might do if he knew. And when he’d heard me mention the possibility of a fourth conspirator, he’d been devastated. He’d told me that he wished I’d told him.
Not because he didn’t know, I realized, unable to keep from trying to make sense of how a boy who believed in honor—who believed in protecting people who couldn’t protect themselves—could have let himself be recruited into a group like this.
He already knew the conspiracy wasn’t over. They told him first.
If Senza Nome was trying to manipulate Henry, they might not have told him there were suspects, plural, for the remaining conspirator. They might have led him to believe there was only one.
“The president.” I forced myself to say it out loud. “They told you that the president is the one who had your grandfather killed.”
Henry stood, staring down at me with the same sick masochism that kept me from looking away from him. He didn’t speak—didn’t confirm what I’d implied, but didn’t deny it, either.
They told you the president killed your grandfather. They made you believe they could make it right.
“They just asked for money at first,” Henry said. “Then information.”
Information. I thought of all the times Henry had asked me what Ivy was up to. I thought of the two of us, sitting in the dark on the front porch. I thought of Henry asking me about Ivy’s files.
He’d used me.
The door to the room opened. Headmaster Raleigh, bound and beaten, was shoved in. Henry tore his gaze away from me, turned, and went to secure the headmaster.
“You don’t have to do this, Mr. Marquette,” Headmaster Raleigh told him.
“If I want to stay in a position to keep the people in this school safe,” Henry told him—told me, “yes, I do.”
I turned my head down and to the side. I refused to look at him. I refused to even acknowledge that I’d heard the words.
I didn’t look back when I heard Henry walking toward the door.
I didn’t lift my head until it closed behind him.
I blinked away the tears that blurred my vision. The headmaster came into focus, bound opposite me in this tiny office.
“Whatever they tell you to do,” the headmaster told me, blood crusted to his lip, his face swollen, “you do it, Ms. Kendrick.”
I was surprised by the fierceness in his tone.
“This is my fault,” Raleigh said, as much to himself as to me. “I brought them here. It’s my fault.”
I thought of Dr. Clark, watching, infiltrating, influencing, recruiting. I thought of the headmaster’s secretary, with her finger on the pulse of the school. “They were already here.”
When Henry’s grandfather died, Dr. Clark had tasked the class with choosing a replacement. Because she wanted to challenge us to think critically about the process? Or because she wanted to know what our parents thought? What they knew?
We see everything. We know all of your secrets. And we wait.
I forced my mind away from the memory of Daniela Nicolae’s words and back to the man across from me. “Why did you take the picture down?” That question surprised me almost as much as it surprised the headmaster. “The photo of you with the president at Camp David,” I continued. The photo of you with Vivvie’s father and one of the other men who conspired to kill Justice Marquette. “Why did you take it down?”
I’d thought the headmaster was in bed with the terrorists. When he’d read out the words they had written, I’d believed they were his. If it hadn’t been for that photograph, for a lingering sense of suspicion cast upon all the men there, would I have questioned that? Would I have realized that the person in the best position to influence the headmaster, to silently observe everything that went on in these halls, was someone non-threatening?
Someone who goes largely unnoticed.
“What interest could you possibly have in that photograph?” the headmaster asked, sounding more like the aggrieved man who’d sat opposite me in his office more times than I could count. “Really, Ms. Kendrick—”
“Please,” I said. “I just want to know.”