The Long Game

Before Bodie dropped me off at Hardwicke, he put the obvious into words. “Don’t tell anyone—”

“That the president’s youngest son is in some kind of trouble?” I filled in. “My lips are sealed.”

The night before, I’d stayed up late reading everything I could find online about Walker Nolan. Of the three Nolan sons, Walker was the only one to decline Secret Service protection. He was twenty-nine, stayed more or less out of the limelight, and had spent two years with Doctors Without Borders before his father had taken office. I didn’t need to be a political genius to guess that any scandal involving the president’s son would dominate the news cycle going into midterm elections.

Whatever Walker’s problem was, it had even Bodie on edge. “Not joking, kiddo.” Bodie turned in his seat and fixed me with a stare. “No matter what you see, no matter what you hear—you say nothing.”

Dangerous. The word Adam had used the day before echoed in my mind.

My stomach tightened. “I won’t.”

After two or three seconds, Ivy’s driver gave a slight nod. “Get out of here,” he said, jerking his head toward the school. “And good luck with the campaign.”

“We’ll begin with nominations for class presidents and then proceed to the school-wide offices.” The Hardwicke headmaster was a small man with glasses, a finely tuned sense of his own importance, and a voice that carried. “Are there nominations for freshman class president?”

The nominations began to trickle in, and I leaned back in my seat. Once a month, the entire Hardwicke Upper School was shuffled into the chapel for an all-school meeting. Today’s meeting, as Emilia had indicated, was devoted to the upcoming student council elections.

It was hard to bring myself to care about student council when my gut said that Ivy was on the verge of something big—something awful.

No matter what you see, no matter what you hear—you say nothing.

Bodie’s warning lingered in my head. Each time I went back over the words, they were more chilling. What exactly did Bodie think I might see or hear that would cause me to say something about Walker Nolan’s visit to our house?

Why does the president’s son need Ivy’s services?

Adam worked for the Pentagon. Since I’d moved to DC, he’d only consulted with Ivy on one other case: the assassination of Justice Marquette.

No matter what you see, no matter what you hear—

“And now we’ll open up nominations for student-body president.” Headmaster Raleigh’s voice broke through my thoughts. My whole body felt stiff, and I wondered how long I’d been sitting there, playing Bodie’s warning over and over in my head.

“The office of student-body president is open to any junior in good academic standing,” the headmaster continued with the solemnity of a jury foreman delivering a verdict. “I encourage you to think long and hard about who will best represent both you as a student body and the principles of the Hardwicke School.”

There was a moment of silence, broken by Asher rising to his feet and calling out, “Hear ye, hear ye!”

The headmaster did a good impression of someone who was developing a migraine. “Mr. Rhodes,” he acknowledged. “A bit less with the dramatics, if you please.”

In response, Asher placed one hand over his heart. “I, Asher Rhodes, being of reasonably sound body and mind, do hereby nominate the honorable—and, I might add, ridiculously good-looking—Henry Marquette.”

Asher really didn’t know the meaning of the word less.

“Who among you stands with me?” he asked, punching both fists into the air.

It occurred to me then that Emilia had told me that John Thomas would be one of her opponents.

As Henry’s nomination was seconded, Emilia caught my eyes and gave a small shrug. Clearly, she still expected me to hold up my end of the bargain.

“Do you accept this nomination?” the headmaster asked Henry.

“I’ll accept,” Henry said, “if and only if Asher agrees to never refer to me as good-looking again.”

I snorted.

“I regret nothing!” Asher yelled.

A second later, someone called out, “I nominate John Thomas Wilcox.”

The lacrosse player who’d been so fond of hazing—until I’d shut him down—seconded the nomination.

“I am John Thomas Wilcox,” John Thomas said, with what passed as a good-natured grin, “and I accept this nomination.”

That got a few snickers.