The Fixer (7 page)

The boy from the roof smiled charmingly. “Mr. Collins! Just the man I wanted to see.”

“Did you also hope to see Headmaster Raleigh?” the teacher countered. “Because if you did, you’re in luck.”

“I’m always in luck,” the boy—whose last name was apparently Rhodes—replied. “I think I got some really good shots up there.” As I processed the fact that
this
must be Emilia’s brother, the boy in question held up a camera, which he had most decidedly not been holding on the roof.

“You’re telling me you were up on the roof of the chapel taking pictures?” the teacher asked skeptically.

I gave the boy—Asher—a look. This was never going to work.

Asher met my eyes, and his own sparkled. I could practically
hear
him thinking,
challenge accepted
.

“I was digesting what you said in your lecture on perspective in photography,” he told the teacher. “You told us to think outside the box.” He tilted his head to the side. “I feel so . . .
edified
 . . .”

I snorted. Audibly.

“Asher, do you think I’m stupid?” Mr. Collins scowled at him.

“Not at all,” Asher replied. “Do you think I’m edified?” He grinned. Beside me, Vivvie grinned. The smile was catching.

Mr. Collins shook his head. “Stay off the roof,” he ordered. Then he paused. “Stay off
all
the roofs.”

The fact that he felt he had to make that clarification told me a great deal about Asher Rhodes.

“Sir, yes, sir,” Asher replied. And then, to my shock, Mr. Collins left it at that. The other teacher didn’t say a word to Asher. It was like someone had just flashed the words
nothing to see here
on a neon sign. The crowd dissipated, and Asher met my eyes and arched a brow.

“What just happened here?” I asked Vivvie, bewildered.

Vivvie shrugged.

“People like me,” Asher informed me helpfully. “I’m very likable.”

“No, you aren’t.”

Asher grinned like I’d just professed my love for him. He lifted the camera up and snapped a picture of me. “Give it a couple of days,” he told me ominously. “You’ll see.”

CHAPTER 13

It didn’t take long for word to get around that I’d taken on Emilia’s case. Forget the fact that I
had not taken on Emilia’s case
. And the fact that random high school juniors didn’t just declare themselves in business and start “taking cases.” To the Hardwicke student body, the fact that I’d been with Asher and he’d managed to evade trouble was evidence enough that I was embracing my fixer title.

Like it or not, I
wasn’t
a random high school junior. I was Tess
Kendrick
. And between Anna Hayden and Emilia Rhodes, people were starting to think that meant something.

It was just my luck that Asher was in my World Issues class. He greeted our classmates by name and accepted a wide variety of high fives on his way to the seat next to mine. He blessed me with a goofy, beatific smile.

Kill me now.

“Congratulations,” Dr. Clark called out at the front of the room, clapping her hands together. “As a reward for being my
last and favorite class of the day, you get to turn in your internet censorship essays!”

A round of groans went around the room. Once we’d handed in our assignment, she turned on a flat-screen television at the front of the room—to CNN.

“Prepare wisely,” Dr. Clark said.

Prepare for what?
I wondered.

“Debates,” Vivvie told me helpfully.

“We are at the mercy of the daytime cable news channel gods,” Asher elaborated, twirling a pencil in his fingers like a miniature baton. “Whatever issue the pundits are discussing, we’re discussing.”

All around the room, people were taking furious notes. I had no idea what the people on the screen were talking about. Five minutes in, I stopped even trying to decipher it, until the show cut one of its hosts off midsentence.

“Breaking news,” the television declared. A wave of unease went through the room as the news feed cut to a man in a military uniform, issuing a statement. All eyes in the room went immediately to me.

No. Not to me
, I realized.
To Vivvie.

It took me a moment to process the fact that the caption under the man’s name listed his rank (major), his position (White House physician), and his last name.

Bharani.

“It is with great sadness,” the man on-screen said, “that I inform you that Chief Justice Theodore Marquette died on the table a little over an hour ago. This was our second attempt to
fix a blockage in the justice’s heart, and there were unforeseen complications with surgery.”

Beside me, Vivvie was sitting very, very still. Asher stiffened. The rest of the room broke into murmurs.

On the screen, Major Bharani continued. “This country has lost a great man today. We ask that you respect his family’s privacy in this time of grief.”

CHAPTER 14

Justice Marquette’s death was big news at Hardwicke. From what I could gather, the still-absent Henry Marquette was well liked—and he’d lost his father the year before. Add to that the number of Hardwicke parents who were politicians, journalists, lobbyists, or otherwise entangled with the Powers That Be in Washington, and a dead Supreme Court justice wasn’t just news. It was a game changer.

It was personal.

“Tea?” The question snapped me from my thoughts. Ivy poured herself a cup as she waited for a reply.

“No,” I bit back. “Thank you.”

Ivy took a sip of her tea, her eyes never leaving mine. “We could order something else if you’d like.”

Somehow, my sister had taken my
I don’t want your cookies
speech the day before to mean
I would prefer to go out for afternoon tea
.

“I’m fine,” I told her through gritted teeth. All around us, women chatted with each other over delicate pastries. I could practically taste the gentility in the tea room air.

Ivy picked up a delicate silver spoon and stirred her tea contemplatively. “Scone?” she asked.

I just stared at her. “What are we doing here?”

“I’m eating a scone,” Ivy replied. “When I figure out what you’re doing, I’ll let you know.”

I got the feeling that I could hurl obscenities at her, and she’d just keep on sipping her tea.

“What do you want?” After the day I’d had, I was too mentally frayed to beat around the bush.

“I want you to give DC a chance.” Ivy waited for those words to sink in before continuing. “I won’t ask you to give me one. I’m not sure I deserve it. But you do, Tessie. You deserve to have a life here.”

“I
had
a life,” I told her sharply. “I was . . .”
Happy?
I couldn’t make my lips form the word. “I was fine.”

“When I left you there,” Ivy said, “three years ago, when I left you with Gramps, I thought I was doing the right thing. For you.”

Then why did you invite me to live with you in the first place?
I refused to say the words out loud. When I was thirteen, I’d tried to ask her why. I’d called, and she hadn’t answered. I’d called again and again, and she hadn’t answered. A month later, she’d called to wish me a happy birthday, like nothing was wrong.

After that, I stopped calling her, and I stopped asking why.

Across from me, Ivy began applying clotted cream to her scone. “What do
you
want, Tess?”

“Not tea and crumpets,” I muttered. “That’s for damn sure.”

An older lady at the table next to us shot me a dirty look. I stared down at the lace tablecloth.

“I didn’t ask you what you don’t want,” Ivy informed me. “I asked what you
do
want. Don’t think of this as a heart-to-heart. Think of it as a negotiation. I want you to give this arrangement a chance.” Ivy’s voice never changed—not in volume, not in tone. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll see what I can do.”

I wanted to go home. I wanted
Gramps
to come home. But even the great Ivy Kendrick couldn’t turn back the clock. She couldn’t
make
him well.

“Have you heard from the doctors?” My voice sounded dull to my own ears.

“I got an update this morning.” Ivy set her tea down. “He’s got some cognitive impairment, disorientation, mood swings.”

I thought of Gramps yelling, demanding to know what I’d done with his wife.

“He has good days,” I told Ivy.

Her voice was gentle. “They’re going to get fewer and farther between. There are some treatment possibilities. A clinical trial, for one.”

“I want to talk to the doctors.” I swallowed, pushing down the lump in my throat. “I want them to explain the different options. And I want to talk to Gramps.”

I’d tried calling but hadn’t been able to get through yet.

“I’ll get you the doctor’s direct number,” Ivy promised. “What else do you want?” She paused. “For
you
?”

I didn’t reply.

“I want you to give yourself a chance to be happy here, no matter how angry you are with me.” Ivy leaned forward. “What do you want?”

She wasn’t going to stop asking until I answered. I gritted my teeth. “No more afternoon teas.”

Ivy didn’t bat an eye. “Done. What else?”

She wants a negotiation. Fine.
I locked my eyes on hers. “I want a car.”

Ivy blinked. Then she blinked again. “A car?”

“I don’t care if it’s used,” I told her. “I don’t care if it’s borrowed or barely functional. I want transportation.”

I didn’t like depending on other people. I needed to know that if push came to shove, I could take care of myself.

“Driving in DC isn’t like driving in Montana,” Ivy told me.

“I can learn.” My words sounded strangely loud. For a moment, I thought I’d raised my voice. Then I realized that I hadn’t—I was talking at the exact same volume; it was the rest of the restaurant that had changed.

It was silent.

I glanced to my right. The old women sitting at the table next to us were gone. And so were the women at the table beside them.
The sorority sisters on the other side, the mother with the three little girls . . .
They were all gone.

The entire restaurant was empty, except for us.

Ivy took in the silence, the empty chairs, and she sighed. Then she picked up her tea and took another drink, waiting.

For what?

The back door to the restaurant opened. A man wearing a suit stepped through. He had an earpiece in one ear and a gun strapped to his side.

“Mark,” Ivy greeted him.

He nodded to her but didn’t say anything. A second later, a woman stepped through the door. She was in her early sixties but could have passed for a decade younger. She had blond hair
that had gone only slightly silver with age, perfectly coiffed around her heart-shaped face, and wore navy blue like she had invented the color.

A second armed man followed her into the room.

“Georgia,” Ivy said. “It’s nice to see you.”

“Don’t lie, darling,” the woman replied. “It doesn’t suit you.” She crossed the room and pulled a chair over to our table. Then she turned warm hazel eyes on me. “You must be Tess.”

CHAPTER 15

When the First Lady of the United States sits down next to you and asks you if you would like a scone, you say yes.

“
Now
you want a scone?” Ivy said, sounding somewhat disgruntled.

“Tea?” Georgia Nolan ignored Ivy and focused on me.

I smiled, no lips. “Tea would be lovely.”

“Lovely?” Ivy repeated incredulously. “You don’t think anything is
lovely
.”

“Hush,” the First Lady told her. I’d never seen anyone hush Ivy before. It was almost enough to make me forget the fact that there were two Secret Service agents watching our every move.

“You cleared the room,” Ivy commented.

“There have been some threats,” Georgia replied, passing me some jam for my scone. “Apparently, some radical groups blame me for my husband’s foreign policy decisions.”

Ivy snorted. “Imagine that.” She paused. “Is that why you’re here?”

“I’m here because Bodie told me that you would be,” Georgia replied.

“Bodie’s fired,” Ivy said.

Georgia waved a hand. “Bodie is always fired. And to answer your question, no, I’m not here about the threats. I’m here because I understand that a mutual friend paid you a visit.”

Georgia Nolan was Southern—very Southern. I had a feeling she used the word
friend
loosely.

“And,” the woman added, “I’m here to meet Tess.” She turned to me. “I asked Ivy to bring you by the White House. She politely declined.”

“I wasn’t that polite,” Ivy muttered.

I wasn’t sure what surprised me more—the fact that the First Lady was apparently one of Ivy’s clients, or the fact that Ivy didn’t treat her like a client.

She treated her like family.

“I was very sorry to hear about your grandfather, Tess.” Georgia Nolan reached over and squeezed my hand. “From what I hear, he is a good man.”

I stared down at my tea. She’d used the present tense.
He
is, I thought, clinging to that one word.
He
is
a good man. He
is
tough and smart and more like me than either one of us would ever admit.

I could feel Ivy’s eyes on me. I swallowed back the rush of emotion I’d felt at the First Lady’s words. “Justice Marquette has—had—a grandson who goes to Hardwicke,” I said, still staring at the rim of my cup. Better to talk about anyone else’s grandfather than my own. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” My eyes flitted back up to the First Lady’s hazel ones. “Ivy fixes problems. A dead Supreme Court justice is a problem.”

“No,” the president’s wife replied, her voice never losing its warmth. “Theo Marquette’s death is a tragedy.” She studied me for a moment, then continued, “And, quite frankly, it’s an opportunity, tragic though it may be.” She set her tea down. “And speaking of,” she said, turning her attention back to Ivy, “I’m guessing that’s why William paid you a visit?” Georgia gave a small, close-lipped smile. “He has thoughts on the nomination and wants your whisper in this administration’s ear.”