The Fixer

To say that Henry Marquette was surprised to see me would have been an understatement. As the shock wore off, he began making his way toward me, weaving through the designer gowns and tuxedos, a polite smile on his face and murder in his eyes. I took possession of the card with my table assignment on it and awaited his arrival.

I didn’t have to wait long.

“What are you doing here?” he asked me sharply. I took his arm as if he’d offered it to me—partially to irritate him and partially for balance.

“I told you I wasn’t letting you do this yourself,” I replied, my smile just as perfunctory and polite as his own. “I’m at table twelve. Where are you?”

He walked me along the edge of the vast, oval-shaped room. “I do not even want to know how you managed this,” he said. Dressed in a long-tailed tuxedo, his resistance to using contractions didn’t seem as out of place as it would have in the halls of Hardwicke.

A waiter came by and offered us appetizers. I spotted the president and First Lady on the other side of the room, near a quartet of windows that looked out over the White House lawn. They were standing next to an older woman wearing a sash and crown, who I could only assume was the queen of Denmark.

“I deeply suspect this is a bad idea,” I told Henry.

He executed an elegant shrug. “The room is crawling with Secret Service. What could possibly go wrong?”

Before I could answer, his mother approached the two of us, clothed in a deceptively simple black gown with sleeves that hugged her shoulders. “Tess,” she said. “We thought that was you. Is your sister here?”

She looked around, as if Ivy might materialize at any second.

“No,” I said. “A friend from school was supposed to come, but she got sick at the last minute, and she thought I might enjoy taking her spot.” I couldn’t help looking back to the president and First Lady. “Apparently, I’d already been cleared to visit the White House.”

“Of course you had,” Henry said dourly.

Across the room, the Nolans spotted us and began making their way through the crowd. I tried not to read anything into that but found myself taking a step closer to Henry.

The president stopped in front of Henry’s mother. “Your Highness,” he said to the older woman on his arm, “may I present to you Pamela Abellard-Marquette?”

The queen peered at Henry’s mother. “I believe I know your father,” she said in faintly accented English. “Louis Abellard, yes?” She saw Henry and processed Mrs. Marquette’s married name. A fleck of sorrow crossed her eyes.

Henry’s mother saw it, too. Appreciation flickered briefly across her features as she offered a curtsy so naturally that it didn’t even strike me as odd. “And this is my son, Henry,” she said, “and his friend Tess.”

Georgia Nolan looked at Henry and me with a gleam in her eye. “The Marine Band will be playing later,” she told Henry. “You and Tess will have to dance.”

Those sounded more like the words of a matchmaker than someone who, in any way, considered Henry or me a threat. The president didn’t address either of us at all. As the Nolans continued greeting people, I exchanged a glance with Henry.

Either they’re excellent actors, I thought, or they have no idea that we went to the press.

Henry read my expression, then arched an eyebrow slightly in return. Wait, I could almost hear him saying, and see.

Soon, we were herded toward the Grand Staircase. The president and First Lady, as well as Her Highness, were announced. Slowly, the rest of us descended into the State Dining Room, like Cinderella walking into the ball.

After dinner, there was indeed dancing in the East Room. Music echoed off the twenty-foot ceilings, a trio of chandeliers casting light on the gathered Washington elite below. I caught sight of a graying A-list actor leading his philanthropist wife out onto the dance floor. As others followed suit, a somewhat reluctant Henry offered me his hand.

“I don’t dance,” I said flatly.

“You do,” he replied, “if you want to get a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the room with no one the wiser.”

I gave him my best thousand-yard stare. He was undeterred. “Henry,” I bit out his name.

“Yes?”

I gave in to the inevitable. “Would you like to dance?”

Henry walked me onto the floor. He settled one hand near the small of my back and used his other hand to take mine. After a moment’s hesitation, I wrapped my free arm around his waist.

As we began to move, I tried my best not to step on his toes. He went left. I went right.

“Just follow my lead,” he said.

I got the sense he wasn’t just talking about the dancing. Slowly, we found our rhythm.

“What are we looking for?” I asked as we spun.

“Anyone who’s watching us,” Henry replied.

I caught sight of the Nolans again. The president’s arm was around his wife’s waist. Behind them, I saw a trio of Secret Service agents doing their best to fade into the background. A dozen yards away, William Keyes was talking to a man in his early forties. Every once in a while, Keyes cast a subtle glance away from the conversation he was having, but it wasn’t to look at Henry and me.

Each glance was aimed at the president and the First Lady.

“Smile,” Henry murmured into my ear. A photographer snapped a photo of the two of us, then moved to get the money shot: the president leading the First Lady out onto the floor. For a couple in their sixties, they moved with easy grace.

“What now?” I asked Henry as he led me off the floor.

“Now,” he said, “I go for a little walk.”

Before I could respond, Henry was ducking through the crowd, toward the balcony. He’d made sure we’d been seen, and now he was removing himself from the crowd.

Making himself a better target.

I started after him but didn’t make it three steps before I was intercepted—by William Keyes. He looked dapper in his tuxedo. Powerful, but harmless.

Looks could be deceiving.

“Ms. Kendrick,” he said. “Tess, wasn’t it?”

You know my name. You’re the one who had the police bring Bodie in for questioning. You’re the reason they called Social Services about me.

“Yes,” I told Keyes, meeting his gaze head-on. “It’s Tess.”