The Fixer
Page 26

It went against every instinct I had to agree. But based on the mutinous set of Asher’s jaw, I didn’t see that I had much of a choice.
“Fine,” I said sharply. I scuffed my shoe into the ground. “Any chance you know someone who can get information off a disposable phone?”
Asher drove me back to Ivy’s. I texted Bodie to let him know that he didn’t need to pick me up from school. A moment later, I got a text back: Call from school. Skipping classes? HRH not pleased.
So Ivy wasn’t happy with me. Right now, that was the least of my problems. Belatedly, I translated Bodie’s code for Ivy. HRH: Her Royal Highness. I snorted.
Asher glanced over at me from the driver’s seat. “Care to share with the class?”
“Ivy’s driver,” I replied, like that was explanation enough. For Asher, it turned out that it was.
“And by driver, I’m assuming you mean bodyguard.”
“That’s a thing?” I asked.
Asher turned onto Ivy’s street. “At Hardwicke,” he replied, “that’s definitely a thing.”
Of course it was. I’d been in DC a week, and I’d already met the First Lady, crossed horns with the minority whip’s son, and gone to the funeral for a Supreme Court justice. Ivy had said it herself: Hardwicke was Washington. For every student like Asher, whose parents were dentists, there was someone like Henry or Vivvie.
Or me. As Asher pulled into Ivy’s driveway, I was reminded of the fact that I wasn’t as removed from the power players in this town as I felt. There was a limo parked in the drive.
Asher eyed it. “Just another afternoon at Ivy Kendrick’s house?”
The car had shaded windows, with glass that I deeply suspected was bulletproof. One of Ivy’s clients, I thought. With any luck, maybe she would be busy enough that she wouldn’t have time to cross-examine me about why I’d skipped school—or where I’d spent the afternoon. I unbuckled my seat belt and opened the car door.
“Thanks for the ride,” I told Asher. What I was really thinking was, Don’t tell anyone what happened. What Vivvie overheard. What you heard.
Asher inclined his head slightly and gave me a smoldering look. “Until tomorrow.”
I slammed the car door before Asher could say anything else. I’d nearly made it to Ivy’s front door before I realized the entrance was blocked. A man in a dark-colored suit stepped forward, gesturing for me to stop. It took me less than a second to get a read on him: suit, sunglasses, gun holstered at his side. Secret Service.
“My sister lives here,” I told him. “Light brown hair, about yea tall? Is probably in there talking to the First Lady right now?”
The agent raked his eyes over me.
“Seriously,” I said. “I live here.”
The agent glanced from me to the street. He watched Asher pull away from the curb and tracked his progress until the car disappeared. I was about to reiterate the fact that I resided in this house when the front door opened. Bodie. He walked out and whispered something into the Secret Service agent’s ear, letting the door close behind him as he did.
“Tess,” Bodie said, turning his attention to me. “Meet Damien Kostas. Kostas, this is Ivy’s sister, Tess.”
The Secret Service agent made no move to allow me into the house. I was about to suggest that he ask the First Lady if she thought I was a threat when Ivy’s front door opened again. Another agent stepped outside.
Behind the agent was the president of the United States.
Not the First Lady, I thought, my brain scrambling to catch up as President Nolan glanced over at Bodie and the Secret Service agents before his gaze settled on me.
Ivy stepped up beside him, her eyes locking onto me. “You’re home,” she said.
“By some definitions,” I replied, trying not to stare at the president.
The leader of the free world offered me a smile. “Tess,” he said. “Short for Theresa, isn’t it?”
I managed to nod but couldn’t summon up a verbal reply.
“It’s nice to meet you, Theresa.” President Nolan was in his late sixties. He had an easy smile and—unlike his wife—not even a hint of an accent. “I’ve heard a lot about you—a bit from Ivy, but mostly from Georgia. She said something about a dinner?” The president gave me another trademark smile. “My wife has an uncanny knack for getting her way,” he said. He eyed Ivy. “Something she and your sister have in common.”
“Mr. President,” one of the Secret Service agents prompted, glancing down at his watch.
The president nodded. “No rest for the weary,” he told me before turning back to Ivy. “You’ll do some digging?”
Ivy worded her response carefully. “I doubt I’ll come up with anything your people missed.”
The president wasn’t dissuaded. “You’re resourceful. If there’s a skeleton in his closet, I want to know.”
Whose closet? I wondered. I flashed to the First Lady saying that Justice Marquette’s death was an opportunity, tragic though it may be. Was the president already working on digging up information on possible replacements?
“If there are skeletons,” Ivy said coolly, “will I be burying them or exposing them?”
This time, Peter Nolan gave her his most presidential smile. “Let me have a chat with the party leadership,” he said, “and then I’ll let you know.”
And just like that, the president was gone.
Unfortunately, it didn’t take Ivy long to turn the full strength of her attention on me. “You want to tell me why you skipped your afternoon classes?” She crossed one arm over the other and tapped the tips of her fingers against her elbow, one by one. “Or where you went?”
I went to see a girl who thinks her father murdered Justice Marquette, I thought. Out loud, I opted for: “Not really.”
Ivy pressed her lips together, like if they parted, she might say something she would regret. “You know that you can come to me, right?” she said finally. “With anything, at any time.”
Maybe I believed that, and maybe I didn’t. With Ivy, it was always the maybes that hurt me most. Vivvie asked me to keep this secret. I concentrated on that. Until she’s sure. Until we have proof.
There was no maybe about that.
“Are Supreme Court justices normally treated by the White House physician?” I asked.