by Ally Carter
“Is Jamie okay?” I remind myself that he’s the only thing that matters.
Alexei smiles, a wry expression that’s somehow lacking any joy.
His fingers massage my scalp, and I wilt against him.
“Jamie isn’t my primary concern at the moment.”
“You know what I mean, Alexei,” I say, pushing away. “Are they still on the run or are they someplace where Jamie can get better?”
Alexei steps back. It’s almost like he can’t face me anymore.
“You ran away.”
It’s not an accusation. It’s a fact. And that’s why he hates it.
“I ran so that the rest of you could stop running.”
Alexei spins. “You left!”
“Yes.” I somehow choke out the word, swallow hard. “And I’d do it again.”
“Not without me.” In a flash, Alexei has me. His arms are tight. “Never without me. Never again. Say it, Grace. Say it.”
“Okay.”
“Say it!” He stares down into my eyes.
“Never again.”
“I was so scared. When I woke up and you were gone … And then when I found you and those men were there …” He curses in Russian. “I was so scared.”
“Alexei.”
There’s no thinking after that. No worry and no fear. I’m aware only of the warmth that is radiating off Alexei, the rocking of the train.
And then Alexei’s lips are on mine, and I’m not aware of anything anymore. It’s different from the kiss on the bridge. There’s no urgency now. This isn’t about the heat of the moment and the danger. This is about now—right now. No future and no past.
“Ahem.”
Megan’s voice breaks through the fog that fills my head, and I stop the kiss, but there’s no pulling away from Alexei. Not now. Maybe not ever.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Megan says, then picks up a remote control and turns on the television that hangs behind the bar. “But we thought you’d like to see this.”
I know those buildings and those streets. I know that world. And I know I’ll never quite escape it.
Even if I wasn’t fluent in my mother’s native tongue, I’d know the meaning of the words that fill the screen.
A newscaster stands outside the police station while uniformed officials lead a man in handcuffs through the doors.
Then the picture changes.
“Alexei—” I start, but what comes next feels so surreal I can no longer say a thing.
Does Grandpa look older to everyone, or is it just me? His hair has been white all my life, but also thick and wavy. He’s always been the quintessential elder statesman. But he’s never looked elderly before.
Seven weeks Jamie and I have been gone—but my grandfather has aged ten years.
Megan turns up the volume in time to hear him tell the press, “We are extremely pleased that the perpetrator of this terrible, random crime has been caught and that Alexei Volkov’s name has been cleared. Our relationship with our neighbors is very important. Ambassador Volkov and I have spoken, and I look forward to everything returning to normal as both of our countries get back to the important diplomatic work for which we are here.”
When Grandpa glances behind him, I recognize the stoic man who stands watching, partly because the younger, only slightly less stoic version of him is in front of me.
If Alexei feels any emotion at seeing his father, he doesn’t show it. His dad was willing to throw him to the wolves, after all. The man on the screen doesn’t look relieved to have his son’s name cleared. He looks like a man who will never be truly pleased about anything ever again.
“Alexei!” Rosie is running, practically throwing herself into his arms. He has to release his hold on me to catch her. “It’s so great! You’re cleared! You’re free. You didn’t do it! I mean, we always knew you didn’t do it, but now everyone knows, and you’re free!”
But Alexei doesn’t look free. He looks furious.
He turns on me. “What did you do, Gracie?”
“Alexei, you can come home!” Rosie says, blissfully unaware of the storm that’s brewing in Alexei’s blue eyes.
It’s only when Noah peels her from Alexei that Rosie begins to realize something is wrong.
“It’s not that simple, Ro,” Noah says.
“But …” Rosie starts.
She looks from Noah to Alexei, then to me.
“Gracie, what did you do?” Alexei asks again.
“I got you cleared,” I say, as if the details don’t really matter. They shouldn’t. But they do.
“Grace?” Now Megan’s sounding worried.
“I asked the prime minister, okay? When I turned myself in to the Society, I said that I had some conditions. Clearing your name was one of them.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me this?”
“I didn’t think it mattered! Or, well, I didn’t think they’d do it. I kind of ran out on them. Literally.”
“You bargained for my freedom?” Alexei says, as if it’s a bad thing.
“You didn’t do it, Alexei! You were the most wanted man in Europe for something you didn’t do.”
“And what of that man they arrested, Gracie?” Alexei points to the screen. “What did he do?”
“I’m sure he did something,” I blurt, but I’m far from certain.
“Most of the world was sure that I’d done something.”
“Maybe he really is the killer. We don’t know. We may never know. And now you … you can go home.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“You have to,” I snap. But when I look around, I know arguing is futile.
“You seem to think we’re giving you a choice,” Megan says.
She isn’t especially tall. She’s not obviously strong. But right now—in this moment—I know it would take half the NATO forces in Europe to drag her off this train. She isn’t just with me; she’s with me. And there’s nothing I can do to stop her.
“Fine.” Noah shrugs, then turns to me. “Where do we start?”
It’s a great question—really the only question. And for all the hours and miles that this truth has been chasing me, the finish line remains elusive. I honestly have no idea what to say. But when I look at Alexei I see a spark there. Well, not a spark, but something …
“What?” I ask.
Alexei runs a hand through his hair. It’s thick and black and too long at the moment. It ripples through his fingers like black waves.
“I was afraid you were going to say this, so …”
“So what?” I ask.
He eyes me. “So I didn’t come alone.”
Instantly, terror grips me.
“If Jamie and Dominic are in Europe, then—”
“Not your brother,” Alexei cuts me off, then reaches for the backpack he’s been carrying. There’s a duffel bag, too, which we picked up at the train station. I’d just assumed they held clothes, shoes. Weapons. But I was wrong. I know it as soon as Alexei clears off a table and upends the backpack over it, sending papers and Post-it notes, tiny leather-bound books and photographs scattering below.
“I’m confused,” Rosie says, hands on hips. “How is a bag full of junk going to help us?”
But I’m reaching for the pile. I run one finger along the glossy surface of a photograph as I say, “It’s my mother’s junk. She kept it in a secret room beneath her shop.”
I seem to have Rosie at “secret room” because she leans closer to the pile and mutters what I assume is the German equivalent of awesome.
“My mother collected all this. She collected it, and she kept it hidden.”
Megan meets my gaze, finishes my thought. “And you only hide the things that matter.”
She turns her attention to the pile. Noah, too. Soon, four sets of hands are shuffling and sorting. I stand a little apart. I hurt everything I touch, after all. I’m half-afraid that my fingers might make it catch fire.
“Grace.”
Megan’s
voice brings me back.
I don’t know how long I’ve been standing, staring but seeing nothing.
“Grace, you need to look at this. Do you recognize it?”
The small book is a soft brown leather, and I can’t help but remember standing in a store with Jamie, running my hands along its cover, thinking I couldn’t wait until Christmas morning to give it to my mother.
“It’s a calendar,” I say without having to look.
“Do you want to … ?” Megan tries, but I’m already shaking my head.
“No.” I can’t read my mother’s careful notes, her perfect penmanship. I can’t look too closely because that’s one way to never see a thing. “You do it.”
Megan nods as if she understands.
The train keeps going, flying through the night. But inside the car, all is quiet as Megan scans the pages, speed-reading, taking it all in.
“When was it?” she asks, and I know exactly what she means.
“November,” I tell her. “Mom died the first week of November.”
She nods and flips through the pages until she sees something and makes a face, flips back, then forward again, as if something doesn’t quite make sense.
“Grace, what do you remember about … before? In the days leading up to the fire?” Megan says, and I’m grateful for it. I don’t think I could stand to hear her death or when she was shot. My nerves are like live wires. My insulation is all gone, and it doesn’t take much to make sparks.
“Was your mom acting differently? Did she say anything?”
I’ve spent so much time trying to remember that night. And I’ve spent the rest of my time trying to forget. I can’t believe I’ve never really considered Megan’s question before. What was Mom like in the days or weeks leading up to what happened? I have to think now, recall. It hurts, but I push forward.
I remember dressing up for Halloween and making caramel apples, playing in big piles of leaves and talking about a Thanksgiving that never came.
I remember …
“She was gone,” I say, honestly surprised by the words, by the memory. “She left. The week before, she left on a buying trip for the shop. Or for the Society, I guess. I don’t know. She was gone for a few days. She said it might be longer than usual because if she was going all the way to Adria, she should spend some time with Grandpa.”
But Megan is taking the book, turning the pages again. She points to something. “This says she went to Binevale. Do you know where that is?”
“No.” I shake my head, look at Noah.
“I’ve never heard of it,” he says. “And Adria’s not that big.”
“Megan, can you get online and see if you can find out where this town might be and what—”
“It’s not a town.” Alexei’s voice is flat and even, almost like he is remembering a ghost. When he turns to look at the distant lights of the countryside, I can see his face reflected in the darkened glass. He presses his palm against it, like he’s trying to push his way back in time.
“And it’s not in Adria.”
Valancia isn’t a large city, and Embassy Row is even smaller. But there’s an advantage to having best friends who each, technically, reside in different countries.
It only takes a few phone calls and a couple of well-placed lies for Rosie and Noah and Megan to all have “sleepovers” that are going to go on a little longer than their parents initially expected.
Then we get to work.
We put away our credit cards and hide our real IDs. Those things are lost to us now. Alexei and I have the fakes that Dominic gave us, and they are the only ones we dare to use. Luckily, borders are porous in Europe, and largely unpatrolled. A person can drive through three countries in a day and have no idea where one ends and another begins. So time is the only thing that stands between us and where we’re going.
And, eventually, time runs out.
“Alexei, are you sure about this?” Rosie asks when we reach the tiny nation of Dubrovnia. “I mean, I know the Soviet Union was big and stuff, but that was a long time ago. Maybe …”
“It was not so long ago if you are Russian,” Alexei says.
The car we rented at the train station is small and loud, and the transportation system here isn’t exactly state-of-the-art, so we rattle and roll along a two-lane highway that’s more trail than road.
The mountains are growing steeper around us, and change is in the air. In a lot of ways.
“Turn up the heat, will you?” Megan asks. She and I are shivering with Noah in the backseat. Alexei’s driving; Rosie’s riding shotgun. At first, she was disappointed to learn that an actual shotgun didn’t come with the position, but she’s made her peace with it, and now she and Alexei share a glance, as if to say that we’re all wimps. And I suppose we are. But we’re wimps who have been raised in much warmer climates.
It’s only early autumn, but already the terrain is cold and hard. The sky is a steely gray, and I can’t even imagine what it must feel like in the middle of winter. Dubrovnia hasn’t been a part of the Soviet Union since well before any of us were born, but Alexei seems at home here. We aren’t that far north—I think this country even shares a border with Adria at some point. But the little bit of sunshine that is seeping through the overcast sky feels precious, a fading, fleeting thing. For a moment I wonder if it really is as cold outside as it feels. Or maybe the cold is just radiating off Alexei.
“How far?” Noah asks.
Megan checks the phone she stole from her mom. She swears it’s untraceable, unhackable, and generally unbeatable. We’re choosing to believe her.
“It should be close, but I don’t see anything.”
Alexei pulls off the narrow road. There’s no one coming for miles, but we park near a bunch of trees.
“What is it?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”
“We walk,” he says, and no one argues. We’re on Alexei’s turf, in a place that speaks Alexei’s language. My body aches as I crawl out of the backseat of the car, but I know better than to complain. Alexei’s already up ahead. His long legs eat up the ground and the rough terrain as he climbs a steep hill, and the rest of us follow, leaving the car behind.
“I thought we were going to Binevale,” Rosie says, trotting alongside Alexei, not even a little bit winded.
“We are. We’re here.”
We crest the hill—and that’s when we see it, a building on the horizon, nestled into the valley below. But it’s not a building, really. It’s a complex—a large, three-story structure made of cinder blocks and stone. It’s as cold and gray as the sky, surrounded by a few smaller buildings and a tall chain-link fence. Though where anyone would run to, I can’t really tell. It seems like an island set down in the middle of an ocean of cold, hard land.
“Is it a prison?” Megan asks as she reaches into her backpack, removes a camera with a huge telephoto lens, and starts snapping pictures.
“Of a sort,” Alexei says.
“This can’t be it,” I say. “Why would my mom come here? It doesn’t exactly scream antiquities.”
“Technically, it’s not here.” There’s a look in Alexei’s eye as he studies the compound below.
Rosie and I turn back to the building as if maybe it was some kind of mirage that was going to flicker and fade before our eyes.
Noah just studies Alexei. “Girls like it when you’re cryptic, don’t they?” he asks, then turns to Megan. “Should I start being cryptic?”
But Megan shrugs him off. “Alexei, what is this place?”
Alexei gives a sad smile. “It’s where you send the people you want to disappear.”
I can feel him looking at me, blue eyes honing in like lasers, but I can’t take my gaze off the building. It feels too big. Too eerie. Too familiar.
“I’m not sure what it is,” he says. “Not exactly. It was built by the Soviets not long after the Second World War. Many believe it is a prison …”
“Of course it’s a prison,” Rosie says with a rol
l of her eyes. “I mean look at it. What else could it be?”
I’ve often wondered what Alexei knows about me—what stories Jamie’s told. How many of my brother’s worries has he passed on to his best friend? I’m almost afraid of the answer. But as I stare down at the cold, institutional buildings below us, I know.
“A hospital,” I say, and, suddenly, instead of a chilly fall, it feels like the middle of winter. “It’s a hospital.”
“No way.” Rosie is shaking her head. “Look at that place. How are people supposed to get better in there?”
“They aren’t,” I say, but everyone looks at Alexei.
“People who go into Binevale do not come out.”
I only notice that I’ve started rocking back and forth when Noah puts an arm around me, pulling me in like I’ve just made a game-winning goal or something. I’m grateful for his steadiness, for his warmth.
“Are you sure, Alexei?” Megan takes a break from her camera and looks at him. “I’ve never heard of it. And, I don’t like to brag, but I read a lot. I mean a lot. And most of it is classified.”
She’s perfectly serious, but Alexei gives a cold, dry laugh. It’s like the joke’s on us, like we’ve never been more un-Russian in our lives.
“I’m sure,” Alexei says, then looks at the gray building in the distance and says something low, under his breath, and in Russian.
“What does that mean?” Rosie asks.
“It is hard to translate, but it basically means Troubled children take a train. They take a train to Binevale.” He laughs again, then shrugs. “In Russian, it is very clever. And it rhymes.”
“What is it? What does it mean?” I ask.
“It’s something parents say to naughty children. It is the Russian version of Be good or the boogeyman will get you.”
“I don’t get it.” Rosie throws her hands up. “Why would bad kids get sent to a hospital? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It does. If it’s a mental hospital,” I say. “You don’t have to be bad. You just have to be crazy.”
Saying the words is enough to make my wrists burn, my legs twitch. I want to move—to run—just to prove that I can. I have to remind my body that I will never get strapped to a bed, restrained, or held against my will ever again.
