by Ally Carter
I’m standing at the top of the stairs an hour later when I see Rosie down below, her blond head moving back and forth, scanning the room. She walks with hurried, frantic steps. Pacing. Searching.
Panicking.
I hear the band stop. My grandfather walks onto the stage, his white hair shining in the spotlight.
“Well, hello, out there!” he says with a chuckle as he brings a hand up to shield his face against the glare. “And welcome. Welcome to the US embassy. And welcome to Adria, my home for the last forty-five years. I may still have Tennessee in my voice, but Adria is in my heart.”
The crowd gives a collective awww. My grandfather, make no mistake about it, is a charmer. But I can’t take my eyes off of Rosie.
My grandfather keeps talking, but I don’t hear a single word. Soon the string quartet begins to play again. Not the boring music they’ve been playing all night. This is a song I know. A song that makes everyone in the room stand a little straighter. And, in unison, we all turn toward the door as “Hail to the Chief” fills the room.
The spotlights shift and soon the president enters, smiling and waving through their glare. He shakes hands and pats backs as he makes his way toward the stage.
“Rosie, what happened?” I say when I see her climbing the stairs toward me.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I lost him. I was following him and then he was just … gone.”
The quartet is still playing. The president is still walking — waving through the parting crowd. And, suddenly, I feel like a fool.
What if Megan was right? What if he wasn’t meeting someone from the US embassy when I followed him? What if he was meeting someone in the US embassy? What if — instead of smuggling in a weapon tonight — he brought one in days ago?
It’s hot in the ballroom, with the lights and the crowd of bodies, and yet I feel my blood turn cold.
“It’s tonight,” I say, not caring whether or not anyone can hear me. “It’s right now!”
Down below, I see the president walking up the steps to the stage.
And then I hear Rosie gasp. “Grace, I found him.”
“Where?” I practically shout.
“Down there,” Rosie says.
He’s so close to the balcony that I actually have to lean against the rail to see him. He is almost beneath me, but I realize he is actually moving away from the president.
I see Alexei’s father waiting in the wings, and when he spots me, a disappointed look crosses his face. But I don’t have time to worry about him and why he hates me, about all the ways I’m not good enough to be friends with the boy next door.
The US president is on the stage. I hear his voice echoing in the ballroom. “It is so good to be here tonight, with our friends and our neighbors.” He raises a glass in the direction of the Russian president, who nods solemnly in agreement.
The tension between the two men is palpable. I can almost feel the tightrope that our two nations have to walk in this moment. And I think of the look on the Russian ambassador’s face as I stood in his office, a teenage girl apologizing for accidentally hitting him in a garden.
What kind of chaos would rain down if something worse were to happen — if something worse were to happen to the president of Russia? If that something were to happen here? Now?
It would mean bloodshed.
It might mean war.
I think about my first day here, about the sight of the embassies all standing in a row like dominoes, and I know that something — or someone — is getting ready to knock them down.
The Russian president is standing with Alexei’s father, and the Scarred Man is approaching them quickly. As he walks, I notice something in his hand. Something black and shiny and …
He’s almost there.
It’s almost too late.
“No!” someone yells, and it takes me a moment to realize that it’s me.
I don’t take the time to think about anything else. Not the number of people in the room or the height of the balcony. I’m not thinking about my pretty party dress or the look on my grandfather’s face as the whole room seems to freeze.
The president is shaking my grandfather’s hand. But everyone turns at the sound of my voice. Everyone is watching as I hurl myself over the railing. Even the US Secret Service can do nothing but watch as I fly through the air and crash onto the Scarred Man’s back.
It was a cell phone in the Scarred Man’s hand, they tell me. My grandfather is meeting with the prime minister now, apologizing and explaining the situation. Telling him about me and all of my issues.
The US president made some kind of joke from the stage — always good on his feet — even as the Secret Service swarmed around me. The Russian president and Alexei’s father were quietly ushered aside and offered some kind of explanation.
No harm done, everyone keeps saying, but I know that’s not true. At the very least, it’s an embarrassment. I am an embarrassment. Some things never do change.
“Grace,” a familiar voice breaks through the darkness, but I don’t dare open my eyes. “Grace, I know you’re awake.”
Ms. Chancellor won’t let me go to my room. She insists I stay in her office, sitting in her least comfortable chair, an utterly polite kind of torture. One of the Secret Service agents sits behind me. I can feel the man’s eyes boring into the back of my head. I wonder if anyone can ever drill deep enough to cut all the crazy out.
Probably not, the tone of Ms. Chancellor’s voice tells me.
“What time is it?” I ask as, groggily, I open my eyes.
There’s an ice pack on my knees. I have bandages on both elbows. I’m not a pretty sight, I know. But I can’t bring myself to care.
“After midnight.” Ms. Chancellor brings both of her hands together, gripping them gently as she leans back against her desk. It’s her diplomacy stance. I can tell she’s trying to muster all of her kindness. It’s hard, though.
“Agent Gregory” — Ms. Chancellor looks back at the man in the dark suit — “I believe we will no longer be requiring your assistance.”
The man rises and buttons his dark suit coat. “Ma’am,” he tells her, then disappears out the door without another word.
For a second, I am glad to be out of his glare. Then I realize I’m now alone with Ms. Chancellor and I’d give anything for him to come back.
“He’s going to kill again,” I start right in.
“Grace —” Ms. Chancellor tries, but I talk on.
“He was here!” I shout. “He was in the US embassy last week — meeting someone. I followed him, and I heard him say that he is going to kill again.”
“You followed him?” Ms. Chancellor asks, but it’s not a question. It’s a threat. “I thought your grandfather and I were very clear that you were to stay away from him!”
“You and my grandfather were wrong.”
“Oh, Grace.” Ms. Chancellor shakes her head slowly. “What have you done?”
When she starts around her desk, I bolt out of the uncomfortable chair.
“What have I done? He’s the one going around the city meeting with shady men and planning assassinations!”
“He is the prime minister’s head of security, Grace. Do you know what that means?”
“Yeah. It means people like you will always believe him over people like me.”
I hold my breath, waiting for Ms. Chancellor’s witty retort, but she only looks sadder. When she speaks again, her voice is soft and kind and tender.
“Grace, we have no reason to believe that he would ever do anything like that.”
“He killed my mother!” I’m shaking now, yelling so loudly that I know people can hear, and I don’t care. I want the world to hear — to know. I am tired of secrets. “He killed her!”
Ms. Chancellor gently pulls a file from her desk — almost like she’s afraid of what it holds. It isn’t just a file, I can tell. It is her weapon of last resort.
“Dominic did not kill your mother, Grace.”<
br />
“You don’t know that,” I say.
“Yes.” She opens the file and drops it on the desk. “I do.”
For a second, I’m not sure what I’m seeing. It’s just a newspaper. I pick it up and read the headline in Adrian, something about a labor strike with the national train service. There’s a photo of the prime minister shaking hands with a man I’ve never seen before. It’s the kind of picture that’s in every paper in the world every day.
“It’s an old newspaper. So what?”
“Look closely, Grace. Look closely.”
Then Ms. Chancellor places a black-and-white photograph over the newspaper. The picture is glossy and new, but it’s the same image as the one in the paper. Identical. Almost. It’s a slightly wider shot and, in it, you can see the people in the background, aids and guards and …
“Look,” Ms. Chancellor says, pointing to the Scarred Man. Only his arm had been visible in the paper, but in this picture you can see Dominic clearly as he stands at the prime minister’s side.
I recognize the handsome features, the salt-and-pepper hair. But the face, I know, is different.
“Is that —” I start slowly.
“It’s Dominic.”
But there’s no scar on his left cheek. His skin is smooth, his face handsome. He is spectacularly handsome.
“So? What’s an old picture supposed to prove?” I toss the file at her.
“It’s not that old, Grace.”
“I’m telling you,” I start again. “I know what I saw.”
“Yes.” Ms. Chancellor comes closer, sounds almost desperate as she says, “And you’re saying that three years ago, you saw a man with a scar murder your mother. Is that right?”
“No.” I shake my head and point at Dominic. “I’m saying that I saw that man — with that scar — murder my mother.”
Pity fills Ms. Chancellor’s face, and I don’t know why. I only know that I hate it.
“Look at the date, Grace,” she says softly as she picks up the newspaper and holds it out to me. “Look at the date.”
I do as I’m told, but something is wrong. Something doesn’t make sense.
“It took me a while to track it down,” Ms. Chancellor says. “I had hoped that maybe you wouldn’t have to see this — that you’d believe us. Move on. But now …”
“Now what?” I say, my throat too dry — my voice too scratchy.
“This photo was taken three days before your mother died, Grace,” she tells me.
“No.” I’m shaking my head and backing away. I have to get out of this room — this moment. I have to get out before it kills me. “No. That’s not possible.”
“He had no scar, Grace. Even you must realize that there’s no way a scar could form in three days. At the time your mother died, Dominic had no scar.”
“I saw him. He was there.”
I don’t realize I’m sitting until my fingernails start digging into the upholstery of the uncomfortable chair.
“I know what it must feel like, wanting someone to blame.” Ms. Chancellor crouches on the floor in front of me. Her hands are very warm as they rest on top of mine. “But all this blame, Grace. This anger. It’s time to let it go.”
“I know what I saw,” I tell her, but my voice is too frail. I can’t stop thinking about Noah’s words: If a scarred man makes a threat in a forest, ever wonder why you’re the only one around to hear it?
“I saw him. I saw …”
Ms. Chancellor shakes her head and squeezes my hands. “He’s just a man with a scar, Grace. He’s just a man.”
I want to tell her that she’s wrong — that he’s been having meetings in Iran and running around in secret tunnels.
But then again, I realize, so have I.
I sit in the darkness, the pink canopy hanging overhead. There’s a tap at the window. I walk to the glass and see a tuft of white-blond hair peeking over the sill as Rosie stands, perfectly balanced, on the limb of the tree outside.
“Grace!” she calls softly through the glass. “Let me in.”
She smiles. Her eyes shine in the moonlight, and in the darkness, my reflection blends into her image. I’m twelve years old again, climbing trees and chasing after the big kids.
I am about to get hurt.
“Grace.” Rosie taps against the glass again. “Come on.”
I reach for the window and smile down at her.
“Be careful out there, Rosie,” I say and draw the blinds.
“Good morning, Grace,” Dr. Rainier says two days later. She’s French and very thin. She wears black cigarette pants and a white linen tunic, and she’s so pretty it almost hurts to look at her. It’s like getting your head shrunk by Audrey Hepburn.
“How are you today?” she asks.
I don’t answer.
I’m not staging a rebellion here. This isn’t a silent protest. I stay quiet because I don’t want to break down, and I learned a long time ago that, sometimes, the only way to silence the cries is by making no sound at all. So I shrug and bite my lip. I do not utter a single word.
“Do you know why you’re here?” she asks. I nod because I do know. I’m here because thirty-six hours ago I humiliated my grandfather and jumped from a balcony. I’m here because, for once, I don’t want to see anyone get hurt.
Not even me.
“Good,” she goes on. “I’ve had an opportunity to talk to some of the physicians you saw in the States. They all told me to tell you hello. Everyone likes you, Grace. Everyone wants you to get well.”
I shrug, but still I don’t say a thing. Even if she’s not lying, I know she can’t possibly be right.
R U OK?
I look down at the text from Jamie. I haven’t taken any of his calls. He’s no doubt talked to Alexei by now. And Grandpa. He’ll be worried, but I don’t want to lie to him, and I don’t want to tell him the truth, so I don’t say anything at all. At least Dad is on a mission and out of reach. I don’t think I could handle him storming the embassy and taking me home. Wherever that is.
I turn my phone off and place it on the table by the bed. For once, the embassy is silent. It’s the last day of the G-20 summit and everyone is too busy to worry about me.
Well, almost everyone.
When Noah appears in my room it is with a great deal of fanfare. He doesn’t just walk in. He has to grab the doorframe and practically whip himself inside — like some kind of self-contained slingshot.
“Hello, stranger. How have you been?” he asks, but he doesn’t hold my gaze when he says it. It’s not like he’s actually looking for an answer. He’s the one person smart enough to know that I’m not going to give one.
“So … the G-20 is wrapping up tonight, and Lila is throwing a shindig on the cliffs to watch the fireworks, so I thought that we could —”
“What are you doing here, Noah?”
“I came to see my best friend. I came to tell her that I’m sorry for being a … whatever I was being. I’m here because we miss you.”
“We?”
“Hi,” Megan says from the doorway. She doesn’t have Noah’s natural bravado, his swagger, or his charm. She also isn’t as good at pretending that I’m okay. Maybe that’s because she isn’t even trying. “How are you?”
“Crazy. Haven’t you heard?”
“Grace …” Megan’s voice is low. “I’m serious.”
“So am I,” I tell her.
“Grace,” Noah says, desperate. “Talk to us.”
“I think you’d better leave.”
“You look different,” Megan says.
“The medicine.” I shake my head too quickly, blink my eyes too hard. When I rock back and forth, I no longer feel it. I can only see it in the reflection in my mother’s mirror, my body like a pendulum that can never quite stop moving. “I don’t eat much when I take it. It makes me …”
My hands shake. The light is too bright. Their voices are too loud. I want to turn everything down, dim the world until it is barely there at
all. But I can’t because they won’t get out of my room.
“Maybe you should stop taking it.” Megan’s voice is harder. She’s challenging authority, and I instantly regret letting her become my friend. It’s maybe the worst thing I could have done to her.
“I can’t,” I say. “I have to get better.”
“This is what better looks like?” Noah doesn’t even try to hide the shock in his voice, and I can’t blame him. I’ve gotten good at hiding the truth. Even from myself. It’s not his fault he got to know the lie first.
“I didn’t mean to lie to you,” I say too quickly. “I just didn’t like the idea of one more person knowing the truth.” Noah doesn’t say anything, so I lower my gaze. I’m pretty sure I rock harder. “I’m sorry I’m crazy.”
“Grace —”
“I’m sorry,” I tell them. “I’m sorry you got sucked into this. I’m sorry. I won’t bother you anymore.”
“You weren’t bothering us!” Noah sounds offended.
“You should go,” I tell them again.
“Yes, I am going to go. I’m going to get my best friend to leave her tower for the night. We’re going to watch the fireworks and get something to eat — not necessarily in that order. I was thinking crepes.” Noah gives a dramatic nod. “I mean we can do whatever you want, but there’s this place I know that makes Nutella crepes and, let’s just say, world peace has frequently depended upon them.”
It’s a beautiful day and he glances outside. “Come on, let’s go sit on the wall and make fun of Lila. Let’s go to the carousel. You’ve got to get out of here.”
I have to get better.
I have to move on.
I have to make amends for my mistakes.
I have to keep Megan, Noah, Rosie, and Alexei from doing anything else that’s stupid.
I have to keep my friends away from me.
“Come on,” he tells me. “You have to eat.”
“No!” I think I might be shouting. I think I might be crying. But the tears don’t actually fall. I don’t know what’s real and what is fake anymore. I can’t even trust my own eyes. “I don’t have to do anything!”
