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.”
“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.