Take the Key and Lock Her Up

by Ally Carter

  “Is it you?” I’m still backing away, shaking my head. “Did you kill her?”

  The British woman rises. “This sisterhood is stronger than its sisters, Ms. Blakely. We do not exist to serve the best interest of ourselves. We exist to serve the greater good.”

  If she thinks her words are going to calm me, she is incredibly mistaken, because her words catapult me forward.

  “Did you kill her?”

  Ms. Chancellor lunges in front of me, holds me back. I look over her shoulder to where the British woman has retaken her seat.

  “Of course not.”

  Ms. Chancellor must feel the rage slip out of me because she loosens her hold.

  I pull away, study them all. “Okay,” I say, even though I don’t believe them. But I’ve recently learned not to believe myself, either.

  “Maybe you just want to kill me,” I say, and I know in my gut it might be true.

  “Grace.” The prime minister is moving closer. The British woman is staring. Even Ms. Chancellor is looking at me oddly, as if maybe I’ve started speaking in tongues, spontaneously combusted, turned green.

  I don’t stop to analyze their faces, to make sense of all the things they do and do not say.

  There’s a table nearby. On it rests what looks to be an antique candlestick. It’s made of cast iron and heavy and looks more like a weapon than a way through the darkness, and I don’t even think. I never think. I just pick up the candlestick and throw it over my head as hard as I can. I hear the crash, feel the rush of fresh air and falling glass, but I don’t stay to watch them bleed.

  I can hear chaos behind me, cries of pain and fury and fear. But I’m already running down the dark and twisty hallway. Running to where, I have no idea. I learned a long time ago that sometimes it’s enough to just be running away.

  “Someone stop her!” one of the women yells, but the voice is distant, echoing. When I turn, there is a staircase, and I hesitate a second before climbing, taking the steps two at a time into the shadows.

  I don’t know where I am. I only know that this building is old, but modern. A product of this century, or maybe the last. And I know I have to break free of it. I have to get out of here and then, after …

  I don’t let myself think about after.

  I’m running up the stairs, faster and faster. I can hear movement up ahead. Someone is running down. Soon, others will be rushing up behind me. I’m trapped here. I know it. But the darkness isn’t quite so thick, and I ease around a corner, closer to the light of a window. It’s tall but slender, and the glass is wavy. I can see darkness outside, punctuated by patches of light, and I know the sun is going down. If I can just make it outside, perhaps I can disappear into the darkness. Perhaps I can once again run away. But this time I won’t stop running.

  I pull off my cardigan and wrap it around my fist, over and over. It’s achingly familiar, this gesture. And I know I’ve been lucky so far. Or as lucky as someone who lost her mother and is now being hunted by an unknown number of international assassins can possibly be.

  “Up here!” someone yells. There are feet pounding on the stairs, and I stop thinking.

  I stand to the side of the window and, with my covered fist, pull back and hit just like my father taught me. I shift my weight and drive through with my legs. It feels like my fist is going to shatter, but the glass gives, too. Pieces fall onto the stone floor and out into the night.

  I’m climbing onto the ledge, staring down at what looks to be a rooftop twenty feet or so below me. Maybe I’m wrong. Goodness knows, I usually am.

  But I’d rather be wrong than be here.

  “Grace, wait!” someone yells, and I turn to see Prime Minister Petrovic on the stairs below me, looking up at where I sit perched on the ledge like a bird with clipped wings.

  But I just shake my head.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  And jump.

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my life, it’s how to fall.

  My feet are square as I hit the surface; my knees are soft. And my first thought is that, this time, my leg didn’t shatter.

  My second thought is that I am still falling.

  It must be another roof because I can feel myself slip; my purchase on the slick tiles is precarious and fading.

  I try to right myself, but it’s no use. I turn to my stomach and feel the slide of tiles against my belly as I slip, faster and faster, and then drop, kicking to the ground.

  It takes a second to adjust. To catch my breath. But I don’t have a second. I land and crouch, feel the stones against my feet, damp and uneven. There are streetlights and narrow, twisting alleys. I can hear the sounds of traffic. The shouts of people.

  I pull myself upright and run.

  When I pass a man and woman holding hands, I don’t ask for help. When I turn onto a wider street, I don’t stop and look in any windows. I just keep going, curving, turning, backtracking, and twisting through the city with one goal in mind: getting lost. Because if I can’t find me, then maybe no one else can, either.

  I run until I can’t run anymore. And then I stop in the middle of a large square. It’s dark now but I know it’s not as late as it seems. People walk arm in arm. They carry sacks of groceries or ride bicycles. So many regular people just living regular lives. I envy them. And I know I’ll never belong—not here. Not anywhere. I will never be safe.

  But I have to be somewhere.

  My breathing slows. Standing still at last, my feet and legs start to shake. And my hand hurts. I think some bones might be broken, but I’m lucky, and I know it.

  I really should be dead.

  I let myself draw in a deep breath, then turn, taking in the darkness and the light, the sounds of whispered conversations in a language I recognize but don’t really understand.

  And, finally, my eyes catch the sight that, deep down, I’ve been expecting to see since I first perched on the edge of the window.

  The Eiffel Tower glows in the darkness, smaller than I thought it would be, shimmering like a lighthouse, warning me that danger’s near.

  “Paris.”

  Turns out there’s an advantage to being drugged and hauled to the other side of the world. If you’re kept unconscious for a day or two, it’s easy to stay awake. I’m not exactly rested. But my feet keep moving. My mind stays alert.

  I can feel the cash and passports that I keep wrapped around my body. They’re still there, itching, scraping. But present. And that is all that matters. The PM and her goons must not have searched me. They must have underestimated me. Again. That might be the only thing I’ve got going for me—the fact that I’m not quite as stupid and careless as everyone believes.

  I’m not without resources. I’m just without … everything else.

  It must be getting later. The people on the streets around me are fewer. Somewhere a clock chimes midnight in the City of Light, but I can only see darkness.

  I hear laughing, talking. A group of twentysomethings are walking down the center of the cobblestone street, singing too loudly, arms thrown over shoulders and around waists. They’re drunk. That much is obvious in any language. And I can’t help but remember another night on another street. The color of fire and the smell of smoke and the crowds that grew thicker and thicker the closer they got to the flames.

  I had my brother with me then. And Alexei. And my friends. But now I am alone.

  I press against the stone wall of one of the buildings. Light seeps out of closed shop windows. The street curves, and I am like a rat in a maze, not sure whether to go forward or turn back. But that’s not true, I realize. I can never, ever go back.

  I jerk and bang my good fist against the wall at my back. “Stupid,” I tell myself. Now both hands hurt, but it’s what I deserve for believing the PM, for thinking I might be able to trust the Society.

  I can’t trust anyone.

  And that’s the one thing that makes me want to cry.

  I miss Alexei and Jamie and Dominic.
I’d give anything to see my friends or my grandpa—to know that Ms. Chancellor is okay. But anyone who might help me might also get hurt by me, and there’s no way to know exactly who my allies are. The Society has taught me that much.

  If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that I have to keep moving. So I keep walking. There’s a café up ahead. A few small tables dot the sidewalk. Couples sit too close on the same side of the table, sipping coffee or drinking wine. No one notices the too-thin, too-hungry, too-scared American girl with the wild hair and the even crazier eyes.

  A woman’s handbag hangs off the back of her chair, unzipped and daring me to do something about it. She and the man are kissing. Too absorbed in each other. Entirely too in love.

  When I see her cell phone peeking out of the top of the bag, I don’t stop to ponder that I’m about to commit the second crime of my life. I don’t worry about the stain upon my record or my soul. It’s too late for that.

  Murder is hard to top, after all.

  So I pull the phone from the woman’s purse and keep walking. I don’t let myself run. I just move smoothly away.

  Maybe I should find a hotel or a youth hostel, some place where I can eat some food and take a shower and think. I know I need to think. But thinking has never done anything but get me into trouble.

  So I dart into a dark and twisty side street. There’s a dim doorway, and that’s where I stand, hidden in shadow as I dial and wait for the voice at the other end of the line.

  I don’t want to hear it.

  And I don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t.

  I just stand, shaking, listening until I hear: “Hello.”

  “It’s me,” I blurt. Even my whispers are too loud in the silence. I put my hand over my mouth and the phone. “No. Don’t say my name,” I say. “I’m … I’m in trouble. I don’t know who to trust anymore.”

  My voice cracks, and maybe I’d even cry if I still had tears. But I don’t. So I just crumble to the ground, my back sliding against the heavy wooden door until I reach the dirty stoop. I pull my knees up and rest my head against them, the phone still pressed to my ear like a lifeline to another world.

  “I don’t know who to trust. I don’t … I need help.” Probably the hardest three words in the English language, so for good measure I say them again. “I need help. Will you—”

  I listen. I breathe. And in the end, I find some tears after all as I say, “Paris. I’m in Paris.”

  Tourists are the same everywhere—every city, every language. It’s a crazy thing that I’ve started to realize: that the very act of seeing other cultures can make the see-ers so the same.

  That’s why it almost feels like home the next morning as I stand in the long line of people waiting to board a big red bus. There are fancy cameras and backpacks and sensible shoes.

  It’s a good place to hide, I learned long ago. Teenagers are supposed to be dragged along behind adults, sulky and sullen. No one looks or wonders or worries about me here. Everyone just assumes I’m someone else’s kid—someone else’s problem.

  So the driver takes my ticket and looks at my Eiffel Tower sweatshirt and the hair I washed in a bathroom sink this morning. I practically feel like a new person. It’s a shame it isn’t true.

  I walk alone down the center aisle, then up the twisting stairs that lead to the top deck. It’s open, and the cool air hits me in the face, jolting me fully awake. It’s a good thing. I can’t be sloppy now, not tired or slow. I need to stay moving just a little while longer. If I don’t, I might never move again.

  The driver speaks in heavily accented English, but I don’t care about the sights. I just needed to get on a bus. Now. I needed a ride and a good place to rest. To wait. To think.

  Paris really is a beautiful city. Maybe someday Jamie and I can come here together. Someday when he is healthy and strong and we’re both safe. He’d like it, I think. The history, the food. Jamie likes everything. He is always able to see the good. Even in me. And that is maybe his only weakness.

  “If you will look to our left,” the guide says, “we have turned onto a street where you might find your own countries, but here, in the heart of Paris. Many call it Embassy Row.”

  I turn my head and watch the buildings streak by, but I don’t try to recognize the flags, read the signs. I’ve only had a croissant to eat, and the cup of coffee that I forced down an hour ago rebels inside my stomach. I want to be sick. But I’m surrounded by people taking pictures and smiling and enjoying the cool air and warm sun. I’m in one of the world’s most beautiful cities, but I’m not lucky. When we pass the Eiffel Tower, I don’t even see it.

  The bus is almost at a bridge. We’re slowing down. Some people will hop off here, I know. Others will hop on. Tourists will make this loop all day around the city. My ticket is good for twenty-four hours, but I have to get off. I can’t stay here, sit here. Wait. I’m through waiting.

  I have someone to meet.

  So I bolt out of my seat and down the twisty stairs. The bus is just starting to move again when I jump, landing on the sidewalk.

  There’s an intricate railing along the bridge. Tourists and lovers lean against it, looking down at the river below. It really is a beautiful day, I have to admit. The wind blows through my hair, a slight chill to the breeze, but I feel cozy inside my new cheesy sweatshirt.

  Maybe that’s why, when I hear the voice, I don’t immediately turn. It’s like I’m hearing it in a dream.

  “Grace?” the voice comes again, and that’s when I know it’s true. But even so, I’m not quite sure it’s her.

  It has to be, though. This is the time. The place. So I force myself to look beyond the plain denim jeans and sensible shoes—the lightweight trench coat she wears belted around her tiny waist. She’s in a ball cap and dark glasses. No makeup. And still people look. Some even stare. No matter what, she is an absolutely beautiful woman.

  Right now, she looks like a movie star, but even I don’t really think she looks like a princess. Ann’s one of the most recognizable women in the world, and yet no one here seems to recognize her. It just goes to show how people always see what they want to.

  After all, who would expect Princess Ann of Adria to be standing on a sidewalk in Paris, absolutely alone? It’s what I asked, but even I didn’t think she could do it—would do it. But she was my mother’s best friend. And now she’s one of the few people in the world who I might bring myself to trust.

  “Are you … ?”

  I look up and down the sidewalk, eager and afraid.

  “It’s safe, Grace.” She takes a step toward me, then stops, as if she’s afraid to move too fast, as if she already knows how far and how fast I will run if given any excuse.

  “I’m alone,” the princess says, but I’ve already seen them, the two men who linger at the end of the bridge. I spin and spy two more on the opposite side. I turn on Ann, glaring.

  “I’m as alone as I can be,” she clarifies. “I have men with me, it’s true. They are my personal guards, Grace. They’re Dominic’s men. He trained them. He trusts them. I literally trust them with my life. Please let me trust them with yours.” I wait a minute. Silence. “There’s no way I could come alone. It was bring them or not come. So I brought them. I thought it would be okay to bring them.”

  She seems so sincere, so sad and so … scared. She’s one of the most important people in Europe and she’s afraid, I can tell. At least I’m not the only one.

  “Trust is harder than it used to be,” I say, and Princess Ann slips closer.

  “And it never was easy. Was it, sweetheart?”

  My mom used to call me sweetheart. Ann doesn’t have the right, but I can’t say so. When I brush away a tear I didn’t know I’d cried, I’m just surprised that I still can.

  “Grace.” She’s closer than I realized. She’s almost touching me. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  I shake my head and take a step back. “I’m okay,” I say, bristling. I need to make myself as small a
s possible. Even here. Even now. I vow to never be a full-sized target ever again.

  “Grace,” she snaps, pulling me back. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes,” I tell her. It’s like she’s asking me if I’m sure I don’t have any homework. But no one ever asks me that. Ever. They’re too busy inquiring if I might need any more stitches.

  “I’m fine,” I say again, but Princess Ann doesn’t look like she believes me. Maybe my bathroom hairstyle isn’t quite as convincing as it seemed at the time.

  “And Jamie?” the princess asks. “Where is he?”

  She looks up and down the length of the bridge. She scans the river’s banks.

  “He’s not here,” I say, and I can see she’s honestly surprised and … something else. Disappointed?

  “Then where is he?” she asks.

  “Not here,” I say again, as if that really should be answer enough.

  “Grace—” There’s a tension in Princess Ann’s voice as she steps forward. She isn’t the smiling, docile doll that the world assumes her to be. She’s practically humming with tension—a string that has been pulled too tight. “Where is he? Take me to Jamie, Grace.”

  “He’s …” The wind blows my hair in my face. It sticks to the corner of my mouth, and I pause. I think. I had a plan, but for a second I wonder if I should change it. I wonder …

  “Grace?” Ann snaps.

  “He’s dead,” I blurt. I don’t even have to try to make my voice crack. It’s a scenario that I’ve imagined too many times. It’s far too close to the truth to have to make believe.

  Ann physically recoils. “Is that … is that true?” she asks, then yells, “Is it?”

  The guards at the end of the bridge fidget, wondering if she needs them, but they don’t move any closer. She and I are still alone when I say, “Mom found Amelia. Did you know?”

  The change of subject startles her. She shakes her head, almost stumbles. “What?”

  “Princess Amelia,” I say, as if people bring up two-hundred-year-old dead princesses every day in conversation. “You and my mom and Karina Volkov were looking for her, weren’t you? Well, Mom found her. Or who she was, I guess I should say. The name the Society gave her after the coup. The name she grew up with.” The princess’s eyes are shielded behind her dark glasses, but I swear that I can see through them.