It hit me then why Ivy wanted to talk about this later. Georgia didn’t know—about Vivvie’s dad, about Judge Pierce. About any of it. Ivy hadn’t told her.

You can’t tell anyone what you told me, Tess. Ivy’s warning echoed in my mind. Until we’ve got a handle on it, until we know exactly who’s involved, we can’t risk drawing attention to either one of you.

I thought of Georgia saying that Justice Marquette’s death was an opportunity, tragic though it may be.

“There was a situation with Bharani’s daughter.” Beside me, Ivy was answering Georgia’s question. “I intervened.”

She’s not telling Georgia about Justice Marquette. She’s not telling her about Pierce.

“Ivy?” My voice shook with everything I wasn’t saying: Why aren’t you telling Georgia everything? Why didn’t you tell the president the second we told you?

“This was a mistake.” Ivy ran a hand roughly through her hair as she took in the look on my face. “Your life here was supposed to be normal, Tess.” And then, more to herself than to me: “Adam was right. I never should have brought you here.”

I didn’t realize until she said those words that I’d been waiting to hear her say them since the moment I saw the bedroom she’d saved for me. Nausea rose in the back of my throat.

Vivvie’s father was dead, and my sister was keeping secrets from the president and the First Lady, and Ivy thought bringing me here was a mistake.

Just like that, I was thirteen years old again. She asked me to live with her, and then she left. I tried so hard not to let myself remember. I tried so hard not to hurt—to push against any weakness, to fight it, to go numb.

I can’t be here. I can’t do this.

I couldn’t let Ivy see me cry.

I bolted—down the driveway, past Georgia’s Secret Service escort. I heard Ivy calling after me, but I just kept running. My feet slapped the pavement. I needed out. I needed away. Ivy still had the First Lady to deal with. She couldn’t follow me.

I ran faster. Wind-in-my-hair, nothing-can-touch-me, muscles-burning faster.

I had no idea where I was going. I ran until I couldn’t run anymore, and then I bent over at the waist, heaving in and out, my breath scalding my lungs. My cell phone rang from inside my pocket.

I realized on some level that the phone had been ringing. I pulled it out, but didn’t answer. Eventually, it stopped ringing. I waited for it to ring again. Instead, it informed me that Ivy had left me a message.

I started moving again, concentrating on the rhythm of my steps, the push and pull of my muscles.

I didn’t want to listen to Ivy’s message. What could she say? That we needed to talk? That she had her reasons for keeping everyone, even the president and Georgia, in the dark? That bringing me here hadn’t been a mistake?

That Vivvie’s father hadn’t killed himself because of something we’d done?

Feeling numb, I turned my phone over in my hand. For the longest time, I just stared at it, and then my clumsy fingers found their way to the keypad. I called the number Bodie had given me the day before—for Vivvie.

It rang until the voice mail picked up. I couldn’t find any words, certainly not the right ones.

I hung up.

An hour passed. Maybe two. Every once in a while, the phone rang. Ivy. Adam. Bodie. And then, finally, a number I didn’t recognize. I hesitated. Probably, it was Ivy. Probably, I should just let it ring.

But what if it was Vivvie?

I answered. “Hello?” My throat was dry, and my voice sounded it.

“Tess!” It took me a minute to place the voice. “Tesssssss.” The second time Asher said my name, he stretched it out.

“Asher?” I raised my eyebrows at the phone. “Are you drunk?”

“High on life,” he declared. “And possibly piña coladas.” Then he murmured something incomprehensible. There was a tussling sound on the other end of the phone line. I heard Asher yelp, and a second later, a new voice came on the line.

“Asher is a bit indisposed at the moment.”

Henry.

“Isn’t it a little early in the day to start partying?” I asked, hoping Henry couldn’t hear the hoarseness in my tone.

“Asher has . . . ups and downs.” Henry chose his words carefully. I thought of Asher, telling me he’d climbed to the top of the chapel because the higher you were, the smaller everyone else got. “Are you all right?”

So much for hoping I could pass for normal. “I’m fine.”

Henry was too polite to call me a liar. His silence did that for him. “Your sister called Asher’s phone,” he said finally.

“She what?”

“She called to see if he’d seen or heard from you. We gathered that you’d pulled a bit of a disappearing act.” He paused. “Or rather, I gathered, and Asher serenaded her with some kind of eighties medley.”

I tried not to think too hard about any part of that statement.

“She gave Asher your number. God knows how he managed to remember it.”

“Tess?” Asher was back on the phone, sounding slightly—though not significantly—more sober. “Was your sister calling about The Thing?” I heard him stage-whisper to Henry, “There’s a thing.”

Henry’s grandfather was dead. So was Vivvie’s father. My sister thought bringing me to live with her was a mistake, and Asher was getting ready to let the cat out of the bag with Henry. Everything was unraveling—most of all me. I felt useless. Helpless and useless and weak.

“Vivvie’s dad killed himself.” My mouth seemed set on saying the words out loud—like saying them proved something. Like if I forced myself to feel this, it might give me some level of power over the pain.

“Poor Vivvie,” Asher mumbled. “First her dad kills Theo, then he kills himself.”

It took exactly three seconds for Henry to take the phone back from Asher.

“Tess,” he said, his voice straining against his vocal cords. “What is Asher talking about?”

My mouth opened, but words wouldn’t come out.

“Tess?”

This time, I managed to form a coherent sentence. “Henry, can you pick me up?” My heart thudded against my rib cage. “We need to talk.”

CHAPTER 37

Henry Marquette drove a hybrid. When he pulled up to the curb next to me, Asher was sprawled across the backseat, leaving me no choice but to crawl into the front. As I shut the door, I caught sight of my reflection in the window. My hair was falling out of its ponytail, flyaway pieces stuck to my forehead with sweat. I couldn’t make out enough of my face to tell if it betrayed how close I’d come to crying.