Slowly, I put my pen to the page and jotted down my answer, letter by letter. What factor did I expect to play a role in the midterm elections?

C – O – R – R – U – P – T – I – O – N.

As my pen formed the letters, I thought less about what Ivy was doing now than about the secrets I carried, in part, because of her. My first few weeks at Hardwicke had been very eventful—the kind of eventful that involved assassinations, cover-ups, and being kidnapped by a rogue Secret Service agent.

“Answers in,” Dr. Clark called.

I folded my paper in half, then turned and met Henry’s eyes as he passed his to me. He held my gaze, and I wondered what he’d written down.

I wondered if Henry was thinking about the political conspiracy we’d uncovered together.

As Dr. Clark collected our answers, she started lecturing. “Right now, the Nolan administration has the benefit of a majority in both the House and the Senate. But—as I’m sure many of you are aware—that could change in a heartbeat with what is shaping up to be one of the closest midterm elections in recent memory.”

Beside me, Asher withdrew a roll of duct tape from his bag. Henry made a slight choking sound, which I translated to mean, Dear God, who gave Asher that duct tape and what is he planning on doing with it?

At the front of the room, Dr. Clark resumed her perch on the edge of her desk. “So,” she continued, “let’s see what factors you foresee affecting the very balance of power in this country.” She unfolded the answers, one by one. “Jobs. Health care. Immigration.” She sorted the answers as she read them, pulling out and saving a few for later. “Jobs again. Terrorism. The economy. Terrorism. Defense.

“And now things get interesting.” Dr. Clark went on to the slips she’d pulled out of sequence. “Ideology. Religion. Voter turnout.” She paused. “Not exactly what I meant by issue, but undoubtedly true, Ms. Rhodes.”

Near the front of the room, Asher’s twin sister tossed her strawberry-blond ponytail over one shoulder. Somehow, I wasn’t surprised she’d written her name on her answer. Emilia Rhodes believed in giving credit where credit was due—particularly if it was due to her.

“Last three,” Dr. Clark announced. “Presidential approval rating.” Her gaze flickered briefly toward my side of the room—to Henry. “Transparency.” She moved on to the next-to-last sheet, then ended with mine. “And corruption.” She paused. “Mr. Rhodes, while I’m sure you do a passable Houdini impression, I would prefer you not duct-tape your hands together during class.”

Asher gave her his most charming smile. “Your wish is my command.” He did a good job of pretending his hands weren’t half taped together already.

Only Asher, I thought. But there was another part of my brain—the part where instinct and emotion blended together, where fight and flight lived in wait—that couldn’t help remembering a time when I’d been bound hand and foot.

I felt a light touch on my shoulder. Henry. I didn’t turn to look at him, but my gut said that he knew exactly where I’d been a moment before. I was held hostage by a rogue Secret Service agent. Thinking the words sapped the memory of some of its power. That rogue agent helped murder the chief justice of the Supreme Court. And the American public will never know.

Transparency wasn’t President Nolan’s strong suit.

The rest of the class period passed in a blur. When the final bell rang, I stood.

“About that grudge-holding yearbook editor—” Asher started to say, but before he could recommence wheedling, he was summarily cut off.

“You owe me a favor.” Emilia Rhodes wasn’t a person who bothered with words as mundane as hello. She was as intense as Asher was laid-back—and she was, unfortunately, correct.

I did owe her a favor.

“What do you want?” I asked Emilia.

She hooked an arm through mine. “Walk with me.” She didn’t speak again until we’d made it to the hallway. “Tomorrow during chapel, they’ll be taking student council nominations.”

“In November?” I asked.

“Student council elections take place on Election Day.” Emilia executed a delicate little shrug. “Hardwicke tradition.”

Hardwicke wasn’t a normal school. Most days, it didn’t even pretend to be.

“The next student council term begins in January,” Emilia continued. “I intend to be president. You have a certain amount of . . . influence”—it pained Emilia to say that word—“at this school, particularly among freshmen and miscellaneous social misfit types. When the headmaster calls for nominations tomorrow morning, I want you to nominate me. Maya will second your nomination.”