I reached into my bag and pulled out a stack of pictures. My final phone call had paid off.

“I’m going to strongly suggest,” I told the headmaster, “that you take a look at these, and then tell me again that there’s no double standard at Hardwicke.”

I slid the pictures across to him. Luckily for me, some of the freshman boys on the lacrosse team were still holding a grudge about the extreme hazing. And as it turned out, they’d taken some very interesting pictures of upperclassmen at a couple of team parties.

“I especially like the one of John Thomas Wilcox doing a keg stand,” I said, a sarcastic edge creeping into my tone. “It’s so much less incriminating than a picture of a girl leaning against a wall, with nary an ounce of alcohol in sight.”

The headmaster thumbed through the pictures. “Where did you get these?”

“Does it matter?” I asked.

“I suppose you want me to suggest to Mr. Wilcox that he step down from this race as well?”

“You could,” I said. “Of course, then you would probably have to open nominations back up so that Henry Marquette wasn’t running unopposed.” My lips curved up in a subtle smile. “I’m sure the student body wouldn’t have any trouble finding another female nominee.”

“Yes, yes,” the headmaster said, seeing a way out of this. “Of course.” Then he seemed to realize that I was still smiling.

“It’s the funniest thing,” I said. “People keep telling me that I should run.”

I could see Raleigh playing the scenario out before his eyes with no small amount of horror. The last thing he wanted was me in a position of power.

“Perhaps,” he allowed through gritted teeth, “I could have another discussion with Ms. Rhodes. Convince her that I might have been . . . hasty. That she should run.”

“If you think that’s best.”

“This little social experiment of yours comes down,” he said flatly.

“The pictures come down,” I agreed. I stood and turned toward the door. Halfway out of the office, I stopped. I could feel the headmaster seething behind me.

He wasn’t the only one who was angry. “My first week at this school,” I said without turning back to face him, “an upperclassman boy was showing off photos he’d taken of a freshman girl, sans clothing.”

I didn’t say who the girl was. I didn’t say who the boy was. That wasn’t my truth to tell him—and he didn’t need to know. He did need to know that Emilia’s situation hadn’t happened in a vacuum. He needed to know that the Hardwicke administration was culpable, that the way he’d mishandled Emilia’s situation mattered.

“I’m the only reason those photos weren’t distributed,” I continued, steel in my voice. “You might think I’m a troublemaker, Headmaster, but believe me when I say that I solve more problems for you than I cause.”

CHAPTER 19

When Bodie picked me up after school, there was a garment bag hanging in the backseat.

“Ivy making an appearance at some kind of event tonight?” I asked him.

“Nope.” Bodie took his time with elaborating as he pulled past the Hardwicke gate, nodding to the guard on duty. “You are.”

I eyed the garment bag with significantly more suspicion. “What kind of event?”

“The kind at which your attendance was imperiously demanded.”

I didn’t have to ask who had demanded my presence. “Since when does Ivy acquiesce to William Keyes’s demands?” I asked.

“Since Monsignor Straight-and-Narrow backed up his father’s request.”

I raised an eyebrow at Bodie. “Monsignor Straight-and-Narrow?” I said dryly. He had to be referring to Adam, but as far as nicknames went . . .

“Not my best,” Bodie acknowledged. “It’s been a long week.”

It had been four days since Walker Nolan had come to Ivy. Three since the bombing. Two since I’d delivered the message about the group Daniela Nicolae worked for.

“I know Ivy wants me kept in the dark on this whole thing, but can you at least tell me that she’s not being stupid?” I asked. “That she’s just managing the press and plugging leaks and has no intention of investigating this terrorist group herself?”

There was a pause.

“Ivy doesn’t do stupid,” Bodie told me.

He didn’t say that she wasn’t looking into this terrorist group.

“Of course she does stupid,” I replied, thinking of the way she’d come for me when I’d been kidnapped, trading her life away for mine. “She’s a Kendrick. Self-sacrificing heroics are kind of our thing.”