“Yes.” Noah grips my arms, holding me still. “You do. You’ve got to get out of this room. You’ve got to live.”
“Don’t you get it, Noah? You were right. There’s a reason why I’m the only one who ever hears the Scarred Man make a threat in the forest. Or am I the Girl Who Cried Scarred Man?” I let out a nervous laugh. “I can’t decide which cliché suits me better. Which one do you like? I can’t decide which one I like.”
I watch Megan look at Noah. There is something between them that wasn’t there a moment before, an unspoken question. But I can’t think about that.
“I was wrong,” I say. My voice breaks. “My mother’s death was an accident.”
I turn to the window and look out at the big tree, but for once I don’t have the urge to climb it — to run away. If anything, I wish the Secret Service would come and cut it down.
“Grace,” Megan starts slowly, “you know how we still have cameras and stuff in the Scarred Man’s house?”
I repeat Ms. Chancellor’s words. “His name is Dominic. He’s just a man with a scar.”
“Yeah, Dominic’s house,” Megan talks on, waving my words away. “Well, I called up the feeds last night just because.”
For the first time, I notice that she’s carrying her laptop. She opens it and pulls up an image from Dominic’s town house. We look down at the same sparse furniture. The same dismal, empty shell of a life. For the first time, I feel sorry for the Scarred Man.
“He’s looking at a bunch of pictures,” Megan says. “I thought it was kind of strange. He doesn’t seem like the sentimental type. And when you zoom in, you can make them out. See.”
Megan works as she talks, and soon we are looking at the same images as Dominic.
“That’s my mother,” I tell them, but my gaze is frozen on the screen. I see the old storefront and quaint windows. “That’s her shop. She was an antiques dealer, but we moved too much for her to ever open her own store. Then when we got to Fort Sill … it was supposed to be my dad’s last post. We were going to make a life there. She really loved that store.”
“Isn’t that where —” Megan stops, then regains her courage. “Isn’t that where she died?”
I’m already shaking my head. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
No one speaks. The silence is worse than anything either of them can say.
“What?” I ask, my eyes darting around the room. “What?” I almost shout.
“He looked at those pictures for four hours last night,” Megan says. “He was obsessed with her. And now …”
Megan fast-forwards the recording, but Dominic barely moves. Eventually, though, the images change. I recognize the streets and the light, but it’s like looking at a stranger. I barely know the girl with the blond hair blowing all around her as she strolls down Embassy Row.
“And now he’s obsessed with you,” Megan says, studying me, expecting this to change things. She doesn’t know what I know: that the Scarred Man didn’t have that scar the night my mother died.
Nothing Megan says can change that fact.
“I didn’t see him that night.” I shake my head and push away. “I didn’t see anyone. It was an accident,” I say again very, very slowly, trying the party line on for size.
But it doesn’t quite fit, so I rock harder.
“Okay.” Noah eases closer. He places a firm, strong hand over mine. For the first time, I am still. “Then let’s —”
“You should go,” I tell them, hopefully for the last time.
“But —”
“Really.” I walk toward the door. “It’s time for you to leave.”
Megan looks like she wants to argue but she can’t find the words. Noah just looks at me — for the first time, ironically — as if I am a stranger.
“This isn’t you, Grace,” Noah tells me.
“No. This is exactly me,” I say, and push him out of my room.
“Come on!” Noah bangs on the door once I’ve closed it behind them. “At least come watch the fireworks! It’ll be fun.” When I don’t answer he bangs again. “I thought you were a fighter! I thought you were tougher than I look!”
Noah’s voice is too loud — too close. I put my hands over my ears, but that can’t keep the words out of my mind. It doesn’t silence the screaming.
“Grace, no!” my mother yells.
“Grace, stop!”
When the cry rises in my throat, I don’t try to hold it in. There is too much bile rising up within me. I grab the closest thing I can find — one of the old paperback books on my mother’s dresser. It hasn’t moved in years, and when I pick it up, it leaves a perfect outline of dust behind.
I can’t help myself. I hurl the book at the wall. It lands with a smack, pages splayed and bent. And, instantly, I hate my carelessness. My rage.
The book crashes to the floor as a photograph flutters to the ground, landing at my feet. It’s just a snapshot, really. Something taken quickly to capture a moment. Something tucked inside my mother’s favorite novel and left there for twenty years.
I look down at the image of my mother standing on the wall, her arms thrown out. The sea is blue and beautiful behind her. Her hair blows across her face, but I can tell that she is smiling, laughing. She’s my age and there is a boy holding her hand. He’s smiling and laughing, too.
Now that I know what he looked like before the scar, I recognize him instantly.
“Dominic,” I say, then I reach for another book and hurl it against the wall as well. And then another.
And another.
And another.
My mother’s paperbacks lay scattered around me. The contents of her medicine cabinet are strewn across the bathroom floor. Hurricane Grace has swept through my mother’s room, and I’m not finished.
The rocking comes faster now. My blood is pumping too hard, and I know I should get out of the room, go for a walk or a run. There are too many live nerve endings in my skin. I am about to catch fire.
But in this moment, I don’t want to stop it. I just want everything else to burn with me if I have to go.
I think about the file in Ms. Chancellor’s office — the one where she kept the Scarred Man’s picture and the newspaper clipping. I want to know what else she might have under lock and key. So I allow myself one more foolish act. I don’t even look back.
It’s easy enough to get there. I just put on clean clothes and brush my hair and my teeth. No one is going to bother the ambassador’s granddaughter on the last day of the G-20 summit. There are way too many other things to do.
When I reach Ms. Chancellor’s office, I pick the lock. The filing cabinet is easy to get open. Inside, I find lots and lots of diplomatic documents, staff forms, and personnel information. The embassy has entire rooms for filing. These are the things Ms. Chancellor holds most valuable or maybe needs most often. But it’s not just that. These are the things she doesn’t want anyone else to keep.
Quickly, I thumb through her personal notes and records. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but I know it the moment that I see it.
Caroline.
My mother’s name makes me stop. I’m perfectly still, not shaking or trembling. Even my breath slows down as I look at the carefully written word and pull the file from the drawer.
As always, Ms. Chancellor is thorough. She has a copy of my mother’s obituaries — the ones that ran in the States and here. There are cards of condolence from the president and the prime minister — even the king and queen.
I know what this immense file is supposed to say — supposed to mean. I am supposed to walk away from this knowing that my mother was adored and treasured and loved. I am supposed to feel like I am not alone in my grief, that my mother left me with dozens or hundreds of powerful people who want to make sure her only daughter will be fine.
But I am anything but fine, and everybody knows it.
Especially me.
When I reach the final piece of paper in the file, I almost miss it. It’s ju
st plain copy paper, white on one side, and it sticks to the back of the file. I pull it away, stare down at the words Certificate of Death.
It is only a copy, but I’m not surprised that Ms. Chancellor has one — not in her incredibly thorough files in her incredibly tidy office. She would want all the information, the facts. She would keep this for my grandfather — proof that his daughter is really gone.
I know my mother is gone.
I don’t need to see proof.
And yet I cannot tear my eyes away from it.
I see my mother’s name. The date. The coroner’s signature scrawled across the bottom of the page.
And, finally, the words —
Cause of death: Gunshot wound to the chest.
The door must open and close. Time must pass, but I don’t sense it. I am frozen, not shaking, barely breathing. I close my eyes and hear the report of the shot, shake with the sound. Three years have passed, and still I can’t stop shaking. I’m thousands of miles away and the blowback has finally reached me.
“Grace.” I hear Ms. Chancellor’s voice, turn to see her standing in the doorway. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
My breath is coming too hard. I want to cry. To scream. To die.
I honestly think I’m going to die.
“She was shot,” I say between ragged breaths. “She didn’t die in the fire. She was shot!” Now I’m shouting.
Three years’ worth of lies are swirling around inside me. I see the darkened shop more clearly. My mother’s face. I actually hear the sound of the gun and I startle, eyes squeezed tightly shut, recoiling from the sound.
“Grace.”
I can feel something cold in my hand.
“Grace!” Ms. Chancellor shouts, shaking me. I can see that she has given me a glass of water. Condensation seeps between my fingers.
“Drink, Grace. And breathe. Deep breaths.”
I do as she says, sucking the cold liquid down in one long gulp.
“Good,” Ms. Chancellor tells me.
“You lied,” I say. “She was shot. It wasn’t an accident. It was —”
“It was an accident, Grace.” Ms. Chancellor grips my arms tightly.
“She was shot! It says so.” I hold up the death certificate. “She was shot,” I say again.
“Have a seat, Grace. Take another drink,” Ms. Chancellor orders, and I do as I’m told, suddenly docile and meek.
“I was right,” I mumble to myself. And then I settle on the one thought that calms me. “I’m not crazy.”
“No, Grace.” Slowly, very slowly, Ms. Chancellor shakes her head. “I’m afraid you aren’t.”
The words are wrong. The tone. The feeling in the room has shifted. I look at Ms. Chancellor, who is backing away from me. I glance down at the glass that is blurry now. Spinning. I try to call it into focus but the room is spinning, too. My arms feel heavier than they should, and I know that, even for me, this feeling is not normal.
“What happened?” I say. “Why do I feel so — What did you do to me?”
“I’m very sorry it has to be this way,” Ms. Chancellor says, but she sounds very far away. The words echo. “It’s for your own good, dear. I hope you will believe me. It has always been for your own good.”
I want to argue and demand answers, but it is all I can do to focus on the glass that is falling, shattering on the floor.
Two seconds later, I follow.
The floor is cold and hard, and the first thing I realize when I wake up is that I can’t stop shaking. Did I hit my head? Am I hurt? Is this some sort of shock like I’ve never known before?
Then a new fear washes over me: Maybe I’m in the hospital again.
Or worse. Maybe I never left.
Instantly, I am certain that the last few months — or even years — have simply been a dream, a very sad illusion. I miss Rosie and Megan and Noah. Alexei. I wish my friends were real and not some figment of my messed-up mind.
I might lie here forever, wallowing in that fear, except the smell is wrong. There is no strong scent of antiseptic. The air that fills the room is not so clean that it almost hurts to breathe. No. The air around me is salty and clear, and that is why I open my eyes. That is when I know that everything has been real.
Everything.
Slowly, I try to sit upright, and I notice the heavy packing tape that binds my hands, pressing my wrists together so that my pulse beats in stereo at the place where skin meets skin.
Suddenly, I’m back in the hospital. Rocking. My hands shake no matter how desperately I try to hold them still. Even though I’m free to stand, to walk, to roam, I am bound. A cry rises in my throat, and I cannot hold it back. I wouldn’t even if I could.
I am thirteen years old again. Cold and confused, knowing that the world is over. There is no place safe for me to go.
I bite at the tape now, teeth gnawing against flesh until blood runs down my wrists, but I only feel its warmth. Finally, my teeth pierce the tape and I rip at it, tearing it from my skin, but I don’t feel the pain, only the sense of being alive as my wrists break free and I start to think again.
I am still alive.
Terror fades and, slowly, I push myself upright and crawl toward one of the four windows that look out, due north, south, east, and west. The windows are long and narrow, made for archers and lookouts, perfect for a city under siege. But as I look down at the city below me, there are no rival armies. Whatever enemies await us are now inside the walls.
The Scarred Man. Ms. Chancellor. They didn’t kill me, and I should be grateful for that, but I can’t help but wonder why. Perhaps they didn’t have time. Maybe I’m locked away in this ancient tower as some kind of bargaining chip, a hostage. I can think of a dozen reasons why they’ve left me alive, and none of them are good.
There’s no glass in the windows. A few candles burn in sconces, their light flickering and dancing in the gentle breeze and fading sun. In so many ways, I am no longer in the twenty-first century. There’s no phone in my pocket. Megan and her nifty earbuds are far, far away. I have spent the past two days trying to get my friends to let me stay locked up in my tower, and now I want to cry at the irony — the knowledge that absolutely no one will miss me.
I stand on my tiptoes and look out the window as far as I can. The sun is almost down. Only a thin ray of light bounces off the sea, and soon the sky will be a dark, inky blue. Already the crowds are gathering outside. I can see them from my place in the sky. There atop the highest hill in the city, inside the highest tower, I can see everything. I can even see the future.
The G-20 summit is going to conclude tonight, and the Scarred Man will have access to even the most secure parts of the gathering. All the world leaders will assemble there. The prime ministers of England and Adria, the monarchs of the Middle East. The presidents of the United States and Russia.
This conspiracy is far from over, and it’s almost time for all the players to take the stage.
And I won’t be there to stop him. Not this time. I will be stuck in a tower like Rapunzel, cursing my choice of really short hair.
“Help!” I yell out the narrow window to the east. Down below, people are filing out into the streets. They carry brightly colored banners and balloons. Adria has always liked a show. They adore their ceremonies and traditions, and tonight all the world will be watching. They will want to make the moment last.
“Up here!” I yell again. “Help! Help! Look up here!”
But no one does. Mine is just another voice in the city, another set of cries. Already the darkness is descending. I see the streetlights growing brighter, and I doubt that anyone will even be able to see this far up in the dark.
So no one will see me. No one will hear me. I will die in this tower alone, never being able to tell the world that I’m not crazy.
I sink to the ground. Broken. Defeated. And then I do what I always do. I lash out, kicking and screaming. I’m almost glad that no one can hear me. No one is going to tell me I’m beh
aving like a child. I kick so hard that my feet hurt. I stand and hurl myself at the window, banging against the stones.
But then the strangest thing happens:
One of the stones moves.
There is an upside, evidently, to being locked in a thousand-year-old tower, I realize as I examine the wall, the small sliver of fleeting sunlight that shines through the place where the mortar is cracked and split. The stone actually shifts when I touch it, so I push harder and harder until it falls free of the wall and tumbles into the sky, but I never hear the crash. There is nothing below to catch it — to catch me — but I push again and again. Stone by stone the hole in the side of the tower grows larger until, finally, I can stick my head out to see the stretch of grass beneath me. I’m in one of the touristy parts of the palace, but there are no tourists now. Everyone is on their way to the celebration. There is absolutely no one to see me, hear me, catch me if I fall.
Down below, there are no stairs, no landing. There’s nothing but a sheer wall. And me.
I want to yell again, but my voice fails me. In the distance, the music has started. In an hour, there will be speeches and photo ops and fireworks. And at some point during it all, I know, someone is going to die.
I spot a cable embedded in the stone above me and slightly to the right. I run my gaze along it until the cable disappears into the twilight. Maybe it goes all the way to the ground? Perhaps it runs between the tower and the other buildings of the palace? I’m not sure. I only know that it is barely within my reach and it is my only way out.
I take off my sweater, place my hands into the arms, and roll the sleeves over and over until my hands look like very puffy paws.
Carefully, I climb onto the ledge of the small hole that I’ve made in the side of the tower.
I don’t look down.
I don’t think about what will happen if I miss.
I focus instead on all the reasons I have to make it.
“I’m not crazy,” I say aloud, and then I leap as high as I can, stretching, reaching.
My hands latch onto the cable.
And I begin to slide.