by Carter, Ally
“Where’s Grace?” someone says.
I hear the question in my ear, but I can’t take my eyes off of the leather jacket that hangs in the back of the closet. It’s a deep, worn brown. The sleeves are so soft that I know that it used to be his favorite. The position in the closet tells me that it isn’t anymore.
I step farther back into the closet, and then I’m not in the townhome. I’m standing on the street. I see the man through the window of my mother’s shop, his tall frame and broad shoulders, the dark brown leather jacket that he wears.
I reach for the sleeve, bring the soft cotton cuff to my nose. And in the confined space I swear that it still smells like smoke.
The cuff is stiff in one place and I finger it, know instantly that it’s dried blood.
My mother’s blood is on my hands.
“Grace,” a voice says in my ear, but I don’t move. I can’t. My body no longer belongs to me. It is frozen in the past.
“Grace!” Noah’s hand is on my arm. “We’ve got to get out of here. He’s coming.”
“No!” Megan’s voice rings out just as, downstairs, a door opens and closes.
I look at Noah. He shakes his head. “He’s here.”
Carefully, Noah reaches for the door and pulls it closed. He pushes me farther back into the closet. I’m pressed right up against the leather jacket, wondering how Noah can breathe so deeply in a tiny space that is so filled with smoke.
There is so much smoke.
“You okay?” Noah whispers.
I nod my head and try to slow my breathing, and yet my heart keeps pounding. I think I might throw up.
“What happened?” I whisper. “I thought he was supposed to be gone most of the night?”
Megan hears me over the mic. “He must have a secondary system. The motion detectors went off and now … hide!”
We’re already hiding, but Noah doesn’t say that. He’s too busy looking at me.
“Grace, are you okay?”
“Fine.” I force the word out. I’m grateful for the darkness and the cramped space. Noah is pressing into me. I couldn’t see the door if I tried. There is absolutely no place for me to run or room for me to move. He’s pressing against me so tightly that I can’t even tremble.
“What do we do now?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Noah whispers. “What do people usually do in these situations? I mean … we could make out?” Even in the dark, he reads the look I give him. “Or not. Yeah. I was thinking not.”
I hear footsteps in the bedroom. The closet door opens and closes quickly — just a cursory glance. Noah and I stay shrouded in the shadows.
The phone rings and I hear the Scarred Man answer, but I can’t make out the words.
Is it the alarm company calling to check on the disturbance? His boss calling to ask why he left his post? Wrong number?
I can’t tell.
I’m not sure how long we stand in the dark. I try to focus on my breathing, the rise and fall of Noah’s chest. But I can’t stop thinking about the smoke.
I would do anything to stop thinking about the smoke.
“Okay, guys. On our signal, head for the skylight.” Megan’s whisper is too loud in my ear.
“What’s the signal?” Noah asks, but almost before the words are out we hear it.
There’s a creak as the skylight opens. And then there are cries, screeches.
We go to the closet door, ease it open just in time to see a cat come flying through the skylight. It lands feet-first on the bed and shoots like an arrow down the stairs to where the Scarred Man will no doubt see it.
Noah and I rush out of the closet and toward the skylight, where Rosie still dangles upside down.
“There,” Rosie says. “That ought to be good for some motion.”
Neither of us stop to compliment her. Noah has his hands cupped together and I’m stepping into them. He tosses me upward as if I weigh nothing at all. I grab the ledge and pull myself up just as Noah jumps and catches the ledge on the other side.
We’re both on the roof in seconds. Rosie closes the skylight with a very silent push. Then, for a moment, we lie perfectly still, watching.
I see the Scarred Man come into the bedroom and look from side to side. It’s like he’s starting to wonder if he’s hearing things. Seeing things. It’s his turn to wonder if he’s crazy.
Then he turns. Cradled in his arms is a very scared black cat. I watch the Scarred Man scratch its head gently, soothing it. Calming it.
I’m still holding my breath as he turns again and goes downstairs.
“I don’t think we should be here,” Noah says the next afternoon. He has a point, but I don’t say so. “We are in Iran,” he says again, but the three of us ignore him. “Am I the only one who is concerned about this?”
“Yes,” Megan, Rosie, and I say in unison.
Megan sits with her feet in the water, a laptop beside her. Rosie does handstands on the other side of the pool, her bare heels resting against the tile mosaic. But me, I just sit watching the light flicker, shimmering across the ceiling, trying not to think about the smoke.
“Okay,” Megan tells us a moment later. “We’re live.”
She turns the laptop so that Noah and I can see it. Images flash across the screen, rotating between the cameras in the bedroom, living room, and kitchen. I can see the Scarred Man sitting in his solitary chair, staring off into space. He still has the cat, I notice, and it lies on his lap, sleeping. It looks as if he’s finally found a friend.
“That guy creeps me out,” Rosie says.
“Me, too,” Megan says, turning the laptop back around.
“How long until he finds the cameras?” Noah asks.
Megan shrugs. “It depends how paranoid he is. I mean, he could do a sweep every day. Or every week. Or never. In any case, we have them while we have them. That’s the best we can hope for.”
“What about his phone?” I ask.
“What about it?” Rosie says, flipping herself upright.
“Someone called while we were in there last night,” I say. “Who was it?”
Megan shakes her head. “The number was untraceable.”
“Untraceable?” Noah asks. “I thought we were supposed to be able to trace everything.”
The look in Megan’s eyes says it all: We were.
“He’s working for someone,” I say. “Someone’s calling the shots.”
“But is this someone going to get caught by the likes of us?” Noah asks. Nobody answers. Probably because it’s an answer none of us really wants to hear.
After hours of waiting, Noah goes out to get food and Rosie falls asleep on one of the lounge chairs.
Megan and I are alone, watching the Scarred Man washing his dishes by hand and putting them all away. I wonder if he is as bored as we are. But Megan doesn’t complain. She sits, patiently waiting — for what, I do not know.
“Hey, Megan …” I don’t know where the words come from; I don’t know how to stop them. “Did you go to my mom’s funeral?”
The dripping of the water is ever present in the basement. It punctuates my every word. I wish I could turn the volume down.
“Yeah,” Megan says, but she doesn’t face me.
“Was it nice?” I have to ask.
Megan nods, but doesn’t say anything for a moment. “I’m sorry you couldn’t come.” Megan swings her feet back and forth. I can see her wondering whether or not she should go on, but eventually she says, “The prime minister came. And Princess Ann, though they brought her in and out through a private entrance. I don’t think the public even knew she was there.”
“She and my mom grew up together. They were best friends.”
“That makes sense,” Megan says. “There were a lot of flowers.”
“My mom loved flowers.”
“Your grandpa gave the eulogy. He thanked everyone for coming and talked about how wonderful and beautiful your mother was. About how much she loved you and your brother. E
verybody cried.”
From the sound of her voice I think Megan is crying now. I think I might be too but I’m not going to give my tears permission to fall. Not anymore.
“Was he there?” I ask, my gaze glued to the man on the screen. “Dominic? Did he come?”
Megan shakes her head. For the first time, she faces me. “If he was there, I didn’t see him. But it was at the national cathedral and it was packed. I bet there were five hundred people there, and I don’t think I saw him. Or at least I don’t remember seeing him. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I tell her, even though it isn’t. Even though I’m pretty sure that nothing will ever be okay again.
A moment later, the door swings open and Noah asks, “So what did I miss?”
Rosie sits upright and stretches, catching the sandwich that Noah tosses her way.
“Nothing,” I tell Noah.
He hands a sandwich to me, and I’m just about to dig in when, beside me, Megan mutters, “That’s weird.”
“What is it?” Rosie asks, but Megan just looks at me.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing.” Megan tries to close the laptop, but not before Noah swoops it away from her. For a second, he just stares at the screen. I can’t see what he’s seeing, but somehow I know what he’s thinking. Maybe because I can see it in his eyes. Maybe because I’ve seen it so many times before.
Noah isn’t angry. Not yet. He’s hurt.
I don’t know what it is, but I know that I’ve done something wrong.
“I asked you if you had ever accused any other men with scars before,” Noah says.
“Noah, I —”
“I asked you, and you said this was the first time! You said —”
“I know what I said.”
“Then how do you explain this?” Noah turns the laptop so that I can see it, and I look down at the four photos that I have seen before. That I’d hoped I’d never have to see again.
“What is it?” Rosie asks. “What’s wrong?”
Megan exhales a guilty sigh even though she isn’t the one who should feel guilty. “I was looking around the embassy’s security records to see what they have on the Scarred Man, and I didn’t find much on him, but …” She glances down at the computer, picks it up. “I found some other Scarred Men.”
Rosie’s eyes go wide as she looks through the file, the electronic equivalent of the one my grandfather threw in my face.
“I don’t get it,” Rosie says with a shrug, as if this subject is already boring her. But Noah isn’t going to forget it anytime soon.
“You lied, Grace.” He looks at me like I didn’t just break my word — I broke his trust. “You lied.”
“Noah” — Megan is stepping in between the two of us — “we should hear Grace out.”
“You lied to me!” Even though we’re in the basement of an utterly abandoned building, I’m almost afraid that someone is going to hear him shout. “I asked you if you’ve ever done anything like this before, and you said no.”
“It’s him! I swear it’s really him this …” But I don’t finish.
“This time?” Noah snaps. “That’s what you were going to say, isn’t it? That you’re sure this time? How many other times have there been, Grace?”
“It’s him,” I say.
“How many times?” he yells again.
“Well, the file says —” Megan starts, but Noah cuts her off. His gaze never strays from me.
“I’m asking Grace.”
“Four. Before this there were four. I was wrong then, but I’m not now.” I look around the room.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen that many men with facial scars,” Rosie says.
Noah shakes his head coldly. “It’s not hard when you’re looking for them.”
He never takes his gaze off of me.
“Noah, I swear I saw —”
“Listen to yourself! You saw him meeting someone down here. You followed him at the palace. You heard him say he was going to kill somebody else. Tell me, Grace — do you ever wonder why it’s always you who hears and sees these things?” Noah shakes his head, so very disappointed in me. “If a scarred man makes a threat in a forest, ever wonder why you’re always the only one around to hear it?”
The words are out and I can tell by the look on Noah’s face that he doesn’t regret them in the least — that a part of him has been asking that very question for days.
“But Grace heard him say that he was going to kill somebody. Didn’t you, Grace?” Rosie asks. “He said that.”
“Well, not in those exact words, but … he was talking about killing someone. I swear! He said there are a lot of ways for a person to die and he just has to find one. He said that,” I tell them. I have to make them understand. “That is exactly what he said.”
I can’t tell if they believe me. Or if they’re afraid of me. Or both.
If they’re smart, the answer will be both.
“Okay.” Megan steps in, the voice of reason. “It’s late and we’re all exhausted. So let’s just go home, start fresh tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Noah says, not really agreeing. “Let’s go home.”
“Noah —” I say.
“Megan?” Noah interrupts without looking at me and Megan stops gathering her things long enough to face him.
“Yeah?”
“Are you still spending the night with Lila?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ll walk you and Rosie home.”
As he starts toward the tunnel door, I catch his arm, hold him still.
“I’m not crazy,” I tell him. I don’t even stop to consider that that is what crazy people almost always say.
“I’m not saying you’re crazy, Grace. I’m saying you’re a liar.” His voice is almost a whisper, and I know my betrayal is deeper, more personal, to him than it is to Megan and Rosie. And it should be. He is my official best friend.
Or, at least, he used to be.
It’s quiet as I make my way toward the embassy. Megan and Noah are far up ahead. They have already dropped Rosie off at the German gates, and now they’re walking toward Israel. They don’t speak to each other. They don’t laugh. I expect one or both of them to look back at me, maybe wave good night, but they don’t.
I feel utterly alone when a voice says, “Hello, Gracie.”
“Hello, Alexei,” I make myself say.
Did he see us emerge from the tunnel entrance three blocks away? How long has he been watching? I find myself wondering what exactly Alexei knows, and I tell myself that is why I’m slowing down, letting him catch up.
“And how are you today, Gracie?”
I stop cold.
“I love Jamie. That’s why I let him call me Gracie.”
“I know,” Alexei says with a smile.
“You’re not Jamie.”
I don’t mean it as an insult, but it comes out like one. What a wonderful bonus. But the words slide off of Alexei. He is immune to me and whatever wimpy weapons he thinks I possess. He just shoves his hands into his pockets and falls into step beside me. “So where have you been keeping yourself?”
“I live in that one,” I say, pointing to where the US embassy sits just down the street.
“What have you been doing?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, spinning on him, “this concerns you why? And don’t tell me it’s because of some promise you made to Jamie. Jamie told you to keep me out of trouble. And I haven’t been in any trouble.”
He gives me the smirk again. “As far as I know you haven’t been in any trouble. But there’s a lot I don’t know, isn’t there, Gracie?”
At night, the sea air is chilly even in summer, and yet I feel myself start to sweat.
“Tell me what’s going on,” he says.
“Nothing to tell.”
“Hey!” he snaps. “I find you lying in the street in a ball gown, and you’re so sick that I have to carry you home. And then … you disappear. You’re nev
er in the embassy when I come to see you —”
“You came to see me?”
“You don’t go to events with your grandfather. You haven’t even broken any bones as far as I can tell. So what’s going on?”
I don’t know what it is that stops me — his words or his tone. He’s not playing anymore. He’s not having fun. This isn’t about torturing the kid sister, teasing her for being too small, too slow, too female to run with the boys.
“You scare me, Grace.”
Alexei sounds like he doesn’t want to admit it. But he does.
“Yeah.” I take a slow step toward the embassy. “Sometimes I scare me, too.”
To Alexei’s credit, he doesn’t follow. I can feel him watching me, though, his blue eyes tracking my every move.
“You know I’m here if you need me, don’t you?” he calls out.
When I look back, there’s no trace of his cocky smile.
“Be careful, Alexei. The world is a dangerous place.”
When Alexei is gone, I know I should go inside. Go to bed. Rest. But I can’t face the embassy’s empty halls. My mother’s bed and her books and her photographs still tucked into the mirror’s frame. Or maybe I just can’t face the mirror. So I slip back into the tunnels instead.
Noah wanted to get different colors of string and wind them through the tunnels to mark the various paths, but that reminds me of the hallways of the hospital where I went after the fire.
They took me there for the smoke. They kept me for what I saw. Or what I said I saw. They even put me in what they called a “special room.” They didn’t try to come up with a soft, cushy name for the restraints that bound my wrists, though — for the drugs they pumped into my system to keep me calm. As long as calm equaled quiet. No one wanted to hear what I had to say.
So I said no to Noah’s string idea. Besides, we can’t risk letting the Scarred Man figure out that someone else has discovered this portion of the city’s tunnels. No tourists ever take tours here; the tunnels in this part of town are supposed to be abandoned, and we need whatever element of surprise we can get.
Or we did. Noah’s words still echo in my ears, and I have to remind myself that there probably isn’t a “we” anymore. I am alone. Again.
