“Not a fan,” I confirmed.

Adam was comfortable enough with silence that he didn’t ask me to elaborate and didn’t press to change the topic of conversation. We came to stand near a statue of a soldier.

“Why do you think Ivy’s here?” I asked finally, breaking the silence, my thoughts still back in the ballroom with Ivy and the Nolans.

“If I had to guess,” Adam said after a long and considered pause, “I’d guess that she’s having some trouble locating her client.”

CHAPTER 21

Ivy was gone by the time we went back into the ballroom for dinner. Either she’d gotten what she’d wanted from the Nolans, or she’d concluded that they had nothing to give her.

The evening’s speaker was a soldier who’d lost his entire unit to insurgents. He’d been injured and discharged. Within a year, he’d lost his sobriety and his career prospects, and within three years, his children and his wife.

As I listened to this man talk about hitting rock bottom and finding a way to pull through, it was easy to forget about the world around me: about Adam and the kingmaker, about the president and the First Lady, about Walker Nolan and whatever had brought Ivy to this hall.

By the time dessert was served, the speech had concluded, and the foundation was honoring the evening’s platinum donor. William Keyes accepted the glass plaque gracefully, and when asked to speak a few words, he did a good imitation of someone who was reluctant to take the spotlight.

“My son Tommy enlisted the day he turned eighteen. To be honest,” Keyes said, his eyes on our table—on Adam, on me, “I thought it was a mistake. I thought it was a mistake when he left for basic training. I thought it was a mistake when he shipped off overseas, and when I received word that he’d been killed on his second tour of duty—I thought surely, surely that was a mistake.” Keyes was a man who knew how to use his silences. “Over the years,” he said, “I’ve come to realize that there is a difference between a sacrifice and a mistake.”

Adam—my always-in-control, never-flinching uncle—stood and stalked out of the room. Keyes continued speaking. I was aware of the eyes on our table, aware of the eyes on me.

The moment the old man finished his speech, under the cover of the applause, I went out the way Adam had gone. The door opened into a hallway. I followed it, looking for Adam.

A hand locked over my elbow.

“Fancy meeting you here.” There was an edge in John Thomas’s voice and a glint in his eyes. I pulled back from his grasp, but he tightened his hold.

“I need to thank you,” he said, “for that lovely display with my father.”

He slurred his words slightly. I eyed the door to the ballroom, willing it to open, willing someone to join us, but it was just me and John Thomas and an empty hall.

“You think you’re so smart,” John Thomas said. “You think you’re so special, Tess Kendrick. Tess Keyes. But you’re not. You’re nothing.” He leaned forward, bringing his lips close to my face. I could smell the alcohol on his breath. “You’re just a scared little girl.”

I shoved the heel of my hand into his nose. Hard. John Thomas stumbled back, his hand going to his face. When it came away bloody, he stared at me, stunned.

“You . . . you . . . hit me,” he said dumbly.

I took advantage of his surprise and headed back to the ballroom. But when I tried the door, I discovered that it had locked behind me.

“I can’t believe you hit me, you psychotic little . . .”

I blocked out the sound of his voice and took a right into a hallway lined with doors—including a family bathroom.

I reached for the door as John Thomas rounded the corner after me.

“I told you Emilia was just my opening salvo,” John Thomas called. “Wait until you see what I have planned for your little boyfriend.”

It took me a second to catch the reference. Henry. Henry Marquette was not my boyfriend. But the threat was enough to keep me frozen in place.

“Marquette’s had you on your back since you got here,” John Thomas sneered. “I wonder if his pillow talk ever included anything about his father.”

Those words knocked the breath from my body.

“The congressman is very good at paying attention,” John Thomas said. “In that respect,” he slurred, dragging the cuff of his sleeve across his nose, bloodying it, “I’m my father’s son.”

Unwilling to let him see that his words had hit their target, I opened the door, stepped into the bathroom, and locked it behind me, my mind reeling. John Thomas knows something about Henry’s father. Something that he thought could hurt Henry’s campaign. Something he thinks could hurt Henry.