Hanna flicked off the TV fast, experiencing the dizzy feeling she got when she knew she was going to puke. She fled to the bathroom and leaned over the bowl until the queasiness passed. Then she felt for her phone in her pocket. She had to fix this for her dad. His voters needed to understand that this wasn’t her fault. He needed to understand it, too.
The doorbell rang. Dot scampered toward it, barking hysterically. Hanna stood up and trudged down the hall. A shape moved through the opaque sidelight, and she worried for a moment it might be the cops coming to take her to Jamaica now. Maybe her dad had arranged to get her out of the country early.
But it was just Mike. “Your final exam, madam,” he offered, pushing an envelope into her hands.
Hanna stared at it. Honors Calculus it said at the top.
“You have two hours,” Mike said, glancing at his watch. “And they’re even letting me be your proctor. Do you want to start now?”
Hanna suddenly felt exhausted. When was she ever going to use calculus—especially if she was in prison? “Let’s do it later,” she said, placing the envelope on the side table in the foyer. “I need a favor.”
“Anything,” Mike said automatically.
“I need to go to my father’s campaign office. Now.”
Mike’s eyes darted back and forth. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I thought you weren’t allowed to leave the house.”
Hanna glared at him. “You said anything.”
Mike pressed his lips together. “But I don’t want to see you upset.”
Hanna crossed her arms over her chest. She’d told Mike how her dad hadn’t shown up at the police station or contacted her in the week since. And then, because she’d been extra upset, she’d also told him every other shitty thing her father had ever done to her.
“It’s something I need to do,” she said firmly.
Mike walked up to Hanna and took her hand. “Okay,” he said, opening the front door again. “Then let’s go.”
When Hanna and Mike pulled up to Mr. Marin’s office building, at least fifty protesters clogged the sidewalks. Even though Hanna had anticipated them from the news, it was intense to actually see them in person.
“It’s okay,” Mike said, then handed Hanna a hoodie from the backseat. “Put this on so they don’t recognize you. I can handle them.”
He grabbed her wrist and led her through the picketers. Hanna kept her head down, her heart pounding the whole time. She was terrified one of the picketers would notice her. They surrounded Mike, screaming, “Are you going to see Tom Marin?” And, “Make him withdraw!” And, “We don’t want your kind in Washington!” someone else bellowed.
Mike wrapped his arms tightly around her and ushered her through the doors. The protesters’ voices were muffled once they were in the atrium, but they were still chanting the same things. Her heart beat fast as she padded toward the elevator and removed the hoodie, wishing she were still home in bed.
“Come on,” Mike said, heading to the elevator and pushing the CALL button. He held her hand the whole way up, squeezing it every so often. When they reached the fourth floor, Hanna peered out the long windows in the hallway to center herself. One of them didn’t face the protesters but the thick, untended forest to the left of the property. Trees jutted every which way. Poking above them was what looked like the crumbled remains of a stone chimney. The Main Line was full of old wrecks—the historical commission protected them if a famous general ever slept there or if it was the site of an important battle. There might even be an old building hidden back there somewhere, forgotten in time, vines curling around it until they made a cocoon. Hanna could definitely relate. She felt overwhelmed and choked, too. If only she could disappear into the trees as well.
Hanna took a deep breath and faced the glass door that led to her father’s office, then pushed through. Her father’s receptionist, Mary, took one look at Hanna and jumped to her feet. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
Hanna squared her shoulders. “It’s important.”
“Tom’s in a meeting.”
Hanna raised an eyebrow. “Tell him it will only take a second.”
Mary set aside the pen she was using and scuttled down the hall. In moments, Mr. Marin appeared. He had on a navy-blue suit with a little American flag pin on the lapel. It struck Hanna as petty, suddenly—his daughter was going to be tried for murder, but he’d still remembered to put the flag pin on his jacket this morning.
“Hanna.” Mr. Marin’s tone was restrained anger. “You’re not supposed to leave the house.”
“I wanted to talk to you, and you weren’t calling me back,” Hanna said, hating how mouselike she sounded. “I want to know why you didn’t come to the police station when I was released. Or why you haven’t spoken to me since then.”
Mr. Marin crossed his arms over his chest. He gestured to the picketers through the front window. The woman carrying the huge picture of Hanna’s face passed by. “Did they see you come in?”
Hanna blinked. “No. I had a hoodie on.”
He rubbed his eyes. “Go out the back way when you leave.”
He wheeled around and started back to his office. Hanna’s mouth hung open. Then Mike stepped forward. “She’s still your daughter, Mr. Marin,” he shouted.
Mr. Marin stopped and gave him a vicious glare. “This is none of your business, Mike.”
He looked at Hanna. “I can’t align myself with you right now. I’m sorry.”