What kind of things? I wondered.

“There are questions about the way this is being handled, and I don’t need to tell you what those questions could do to the party in the midterms.” Keyes didn’t wait for a response before he went straight for the jugular. “The youngest Nolan boy came to visit you last night. Why?”

Listening to this conversation was like watching the old man play chess. Each move was calculated for maximum effect, part of a larger plan.

Unfortunately for William Keyes, when he’d taught Ivy to play his game, he’d taught her a little too well. She wouldn’t tell him anything she didn’t want him to know. Keyes turned his back on me as he replied to whatever she’d said. I couldn’t make out his words.

Less than a minute later, he cursed and hung up the phone. When he turned back to me, his expression was perfectly controlled. He held the phone out to me. I closed my fingers around it and then made a move of my own.

“Daniela Nicolae,” I said. A split second of surprise crossed his face before he banished it in favor of a scowl. “You said there were questions about the way this was being handled,” I continued. “I’m assuming the this in question is the bombing.”

The kingmaker’s eyes raked over me, the way they did when we played chess, assessing the extent to which I’d taken his lessons to heart.

“There is one thing on which that godforsaken mother of yours and I agree,” he said finally. “And that is that whatever is or is not happening, it’s no concern of yours.”

I expected that from Ivy and Adam. I hadn’t expected it from him.

Keyes assessed me dispassionately. “You dislike being kept out of the loop,” he said. “That, you get from me.” He strode past me. “Come along.”

I stayed glued to the spot.

William Keyes turned back toward me. “I am many things, Theresa, but I am not a man who would leave his only grandchild alone in a house like this one at a time like this. Ivy is playing with fire. I’ll not have you burned. If she cannot provide adequate security for you, I most assuredly will.”

This was why Ivy hadn’t ever wanted Keyes to know about me. He was a man who gave orders and exerted absolute control over everyone in his domain. The moment he’d found out I had his son’s blood, that domain included me.

“If you would prefer,” Keyes said, his voice silky, “I can arrange for Hayes to stay here with you until Ivy returns.” He nodded toward his driver.

Strategy. Resources. Influence. Family mattered to Keyes—but putting his man inside Ivy’s house? Having eyes on her base of operations?

That had value, too.

I decided on the lesser of two evils. “Where are we going?”

We went to the Mall. In any other city in the world, that might have involved shopping, but the National Mall wasn’t the kind with shops. Keyes and I stood, side by side, next to the Reflecting Pool. Behind us, the Lincoln Memorial loomed over the tourists below. On the far side of the Reflecting Pool, the Washington Monument cut a striking figure against a graying sky.

“The Marquette boy drove you home.” Keyes seemed to direct that observation more to the water than to me. “His mother is an Abellard, is she not?”

I decided that was a rhetorical question.

“It is important,” Keyes said contemplatively, “to make friends with the right kind of people.”

In his eyes, Henry was the right kind of people.

“Did you meet Walker Nolan when he came to visit Ivy?” Keyes queried, and my gut told me this was what he’d wanted to ask all along.

I was comfortable with silence, comfortable with letting questions go unanswered. Sometimes it was my best tool for making a person say more.

“There are times,” Keyes sighed, “when you remind me very much of my wife.”

I wasn’t going to give him any information about Ivy’s case, and he wasn’t going to share what he knew with me. But I felt like I should give him something in exchange for what he’d just said about the grandmother I’d never met.

“The minority whip’s son is running for student council.” That was as close to a peace offering as I could come. “I intend for him to lose.”

That got a small snort out of the old man. “Funny,” he said, “isn’t it, that sometimes the loser matters more than the person who wins?” He glanced up from the pool. His gaze settled on something and then he turned back to me. “Give us a moment, would you, Tess?”

Us? I turned to look at a woman standing nearby, a scarf hiding her hair, sunglasses obscuring her face. Even with the camouflage, I recognized her immediately.