by Ally Carter
“Grace, you’re scaring me.”
Slowly, I force myself to find his eyes, hold his gaze.
“That’s okay,” I tell him. “Because I’m terrified.”
I don’t know where we’re going. Not exactly. But when we cross to the other side of the wall, my feet seem to take me automatically to a place I haven’t seen in ages. Once upon a time it was probably lovely, but the years and the salty sea air have taken their toll. And now the carousel with its horses and knights and dragons sits abandoned, paint fading, its melody long since silent.
“What is it?” Noah asks when we get there. “What’s going on?”
He drops his backpack, and I step up onto the carousel, run my hands along the back of a white horse that no longer rises or falls.
“My mom used to play here when she was a little girl. It was her favorite place in the whole city. She would bring Jamie and me here at least once every summer. We’d pack a lunch and eat it over there — on that big, flat rock. Last night, in the receiving line, Princess Ann said she came here with us once when I was little. I don’t even remember. Isn’t that weird? There are some things about my mom that I think about every hour of every day, but some … it’s like I’ve blocked them out completely. That’s strange, isn’t it? I wonder if it’s always like that?”
“Grace, I —”
“I found him, Noah,” I say, and to his credit, Noah doesn’t ask who — he doesn’t demand answers. He must already know me well enough to know that I have to say this in my own time, in my own way. He must know me well enough to know that I’m afraid this truth might kill me.
“I found him,” I say again. “I found the man who killed my mother.”
At my words, Noah actually stumbles back. He trips a little over his own backpack, rights himself, and tries to play it cool.
“I didn’t realize he was missing.”
“I’m serious, Noah.”
“I am, too,” he says. “I mean … I don’t know … what happened? I thought your mom died in an accident or something. A fire.”
“That’s what they say.”
“But …”
“But I was there. I saw it happen.”
“You saw your mom die?” Noah’s eyebrows are raised. He can’t hide his surprise or his pity.
“It was late and it was dark, but yeah. I saw it.”
“That was … what? Three years ago? You were twelve?”
“Thirteen.”
“Wow.”
“Don’t start, Noah.” I walk around the white horse, take shelter behind a dancing bear.
“I’m not starting anything,” he says. “It’s just —”
“Yes, it was dark,” I snap back. “Yes, I was young, and it was traumatic. Yes, I have never been the most reliable girl in the world, but I know what I saw. And I’m telling you, I saw a man with a scar on his left cheek shoot my mother. I heard the bomb that burned her shop to the ground.”
My breath is coming hard, but this isn’t an attack. It feels different. I feel different. The shock is over and all that remains from the night before is my overwhelming anger.
“I saw his face that night, Noah. I have seen his face every night. And last night — I’m telling you that last night I saw him.”
“You saw him or you saw a man with a scar?”
I don’t give him a reply. I don’t dignify what he’s said with a response. I do not dignify him. I’ve already heard the speech so many times that I know it better than he does. I have no desire to hear it again. I’m off the carousel and strolling back the way we came almost before he can realize what he’s said and done.
“Grace, wait. Grace!” Noah calls after me. “I believe you!” he shouts, and that stops me. “I’ll go with you to tell your grandfather.”
“I already told him,” I say.
Noah nods, steps closer. “Good. Good. Now he and Ms. Chancellor can —”
“They don’t believe me. They think I made him up. They’ve always thought I was making him up, and now …” Noah gives me a look. “I’m not!”
“I believe you! It’s just … why doesn’t your grandfather believe you? I mean, it’s not like you make a habit out of accusing scarred men or anything, right?”
I must stand a little too still for a little too long because Noah asks again, “Right?”
“Of course not,” I snap. “It’s just easier to tell me I was seeing things. It’s easier for him not to believe me, but if you don’t believe me either, then —”
“I believe you!” Noah insists again. “I do. Okay?” He eases closer, places his hand on my arm. I shudder but don’t pull away. I get the sense that he’s probably trying to comfort me, but neither of us are sure how that is supposed to go, so he just keeps his fingers on my elbow, like a really distant, really awkward hug.
“I do believe you. But, Grace, what are we supposed to do?”
I didn’t sleep last night. Not because of the crying, or the trauma, or the flashbacks. Not even the humiliation of having Alexei witness one of my attacks could distract me from the thoughts that filled my mind once the shock and terror finally faded.
“Grace …” Noah starts slowly.
“We’re going to find him,” I say, certain and strong. I will tear the great walled city down stone by stone if that is what it takes. “You are going to help me find him.”
There are seagulls overhead. I can hear their cries and the breaking of the waves against the shore. Down the beach, a group of little kids is sitting in a circle on the sand. Even though they’re far away, the song they’re singing catches on the wind and carries toward us.
Wait, little princes, dead and gone
No one’s gonna know you’re coming home
Wait, little princes, one-two-three
No one’s gonna know that you are me
It is the Duck, Duck, Goose of Adria. I’d totally forgotten it until now, but the haunting melody comes back. I can remember our mother singing it as Jamie and I played in the yard. When the song ends the kids all stand and chase each other wildly around. I want to join them. Those words have always made me want to run.
Noah rubs his hand over his face, mumbles something that is a cross between Hebrew and Portuguese. Then he shrugs and gives the long sigh of someone who has learned not to argue. “Just tell me what to do. Wait … do we know what to do?”
He doesn’t look at me like Jamie or my father, like Grandpa or Ms. Chancellor. Noah isn’t looking at me like I’m seeing things, hearing things, too fragile and grief-stricken to live.
In short, for the first time in three years, I’m talking about the man who killed my mother with someone who isn’t looking at me like I’m crazy.
And that is why I trust him. That is why I say, “Come on.”
“Hello, Grace. Noah.” It’s clear from the way Ms. Chancellor is looking at us that she thinks her plan is working — that we’ve come to ask her to arrange the wedding, maybe be godmother to our child. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Ms. Chancellor is carrying a stack of files and walking through the embassy in a pair of impossibly high heels. I’ve noticed this about Ms. Chancellor: She’s almost always moving. And she’s almost always doing it while wearing shoes that would make me want to stay perfectly, utterly still.
“I was hoping you could help me,” I say, following her up the stairs.
She rests her left hand on the smooth rail but glances quickly back.
“Of course I will if I can.”
“After last night …” I begin.
This, at last, stops her. Ms. Chancellor pivots on the balls of her feet, looks down at me from two steps ahead.
“Your grandfather and I have already spoken about this, Grace, and I’m afraid I —”
“I’m not talking about that,” I hurry to say.
“You’re not?”
“She’s not,” Noah adds. Ms. Chancellor slides her gaze onto him. At least there’s someone on my side she can trust.
/> “No. Grandpa was right,” I say. “I’m sure I was just tired. This is all so new to me. I probably just got overwhelmed.”
“Yeah.” Noah moves to join me. “In fact, Grace and I were talking about how overwhelming it all can be. So many new people. Not to mention all the protocols and the rules and —”
“And the people,” I blurt. “There are just so many new people. It was —”
“Overwhelming,” Noah interjects.
“Yes,” I say. “Overwhelming.”
Ms. Chancellor crosses her arms, file folders pulled tightly against her chest. “I see.”
Noah moves forward. “So I was telling Grace about the directory. I thought that she could take a look at that — maybe memorize a few names and faces and then —”
Ms. Chancellor spins and starts back up the stairs, Noah chasing after her.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Noah.”
“I know you keep a book. A file. Something with pictures and names and job titles and the lowdown on all the players. Come on, Ms. C. I know you have something like that.”
“You know no such thing,” she tells him.
“Then you’d be the only embassy on the row that doesn’t have one.” It’s a good point, and I can tell by the look on Ms. Chancellor’s face that he’s got her.
“Come on, Ms. Chancellor,” Noah says, easing closer to the place where she now stands at the top of the stairs. “Tell me, would you rather have Grace getting her information off the street? Or here, in the safety of her own home?”
Ms. Chancellor looks between us, a slight crinkle in her brow. We amuse her, I realize. Up until my arrival, her job was probably all conference calls and paperwork.
“Actually, Noah, I prefer Grace get all of her information from you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go drop these files off in my office and then go have tea with your mother, Noah. Grace, I’m sure everything is going to be fine. And that, right now, is the best I can offer.”
She starts to walk away but turns back, eyes me over the top of her glasses. It’s like looking at Clark Kent and getting a glimpse of Superman. I’m almost sure she sees through me.
“Are you certain you’re feeling okay today, Grace?”
I smile.
I lie.
“I’m great.”
The sun is lower when Noah and I step into the courtyard.
“So what’s Plan B?” I ask him.
“Wait,” Noah says. “I was supposed to come up with a Plan B? I don’t have a Plan B. I mean, I guess I could just start randomly going up to strangers, asking if they’ve seen a big, scary guy with a scar on his cheek. I’m assuming he’s big and scary. I didn’t really ask about that part.”
Noah rambles when he’s nervous. It’s one of many things I’m starting to figure out about him.
“Can you get the directory from Israel or Brazil?” I ask.
Noah shakes his head. “I doubt it. I don’t have that kind of access.”
“They’d have a guest list for last night inside the palace, right?” I say. “Invitations, security checks? Everyone went through a metal detector. There have to be cameras. Facial-recognition software. They have to have that, don’t they?”
Noah looks at me like maybe I’m off my meds. Which I am. But that is totally beside the point. “I guess so.”
“Well, who do we know at the palace?”
“Who do we know at the palace?” Noah can’t help himself; he laughs a little. “Correction. Who do we know who would hand over classified security footage and facial-recognition results? Well, there’s got to be a super long list. Hey, the king seems like a good guy. I bet we can call him up and ask for a favor.”
“Well, we’ve got to do something! Can we hack the palace’s computer server?”
“Of course!” Noah actually hits his forehead with his palm. “Why didn’t I think of that? I’ll get right on it.”
“What about the embassy’s servers?”
“Who are you?!” Noah cries, like I’m morphing right in front of his eyes. He doesn’t know this version of me has been around since the cradle. “More importantly, who do you think I am?”
Poor Noah. All he wanted to do today was go see his dad, and look at what I’ve done. I’ve tried to turn him into an international hacker and all-around spy.
Man, I find myself thinking, I wish I knew a spy.
I hear the gate behind me open, and soon Megan is coming toward us. She’s in pink shorts. A pink top. There is even a pink headband keeping her glossy black bangs out of her eyes while her glossy black ponytail swings back and forth, keeping time. She’s been for a jog, and her dark skin has a glow that is … well … pink.
For a second, I think Noah might actually gag on his own tongue.
“What are you two talking about?” Megan asks.
“Nothing,” I say, just as Noah blurts, “Hi, Megan!”
It’s like he’s just worked up the nerve to talk and now the words come rolling out. “You look … sweaty. But in a good way. The good sweaty, is what I mean.”
“Thanks,” Megan says, the word clipped, like she’s not exactly certain what to make of either the compliment or the boy who’s given it.
I expect her to walk inside, to roll her eyes and go do whatever it is that popular, beautiful people do. But Megan just stands there, arms crossed, looking at me.
“Are you going to tell me what you’re up to or not?” she asks finally.
“Not,” I say. Not because I’m worried that she’ll tell someone. I’m worried she’ll tell everyone.
“That’s too bad,” Megan says, pushing past us. “I thought I heard you trying to figure out how to hack into the palace’s mainframe.”
“That’s what you get for thinking,” I say with a shrug. “I hear it can give you breakouts. Nasty business. Best to avoid it altogether.”
And then Megan turns on me.
“I never did anything to you, Grace! I never did anything at all. I’ve been trying to be your friend since we were six years old, but I’m not good enough for you, I guess. I’ve never been good enough for you. Well this is me, deciding to stop trying.”
I’m still reeling from her words when she spins and starts toward the door. She’s almost inside when Noah calls out “Wait!” and she actually does.
Noah seems as surprised by this as I am. When she looks at him, his cheeks turn red and he starts to talk too quickly.
“It’s just that we’re looking for this guy and we know he was at the party at the palace last night, but we don’t have any way of finding him and —”
“I can find him,” Megan says matter-of-factly. Then she looks at me. “If that’s okay with you.”
But all I can think is Megan wanted to be friends with me? I think back on all the times the two of us were thrust together: companions of last resort. I always thought she resented having to come play with me. And as a result, I hated having to play with her. But maybe we were both wrong. Maybe we were just two proud and stubborn little girls who were just too proud and stubborn.
“I know you just got back from your run and you’re all … sweaty,” Noah says. I elbow him in the gut. Hard. “But we really need your help.”
Megan crosses her arms. “So what’s it going to be, Grace? I can help you. Or you can stand here, being too bullheaded to let me. It’s your call.”
I’ve known Megan almost all my life. This is the first time I’ve ever liked her.
“Whose office is this?” Noah asks three minutes later.
“Someone who is currently having tea with a good friend in Israel,” I tell him.
“Ms. Chancellor?” Noah sounds like he might hyperventilate, so I hurry up and close the door. “We just broke into the office of … Okay. Not going to panic.”
“Yeah. That’s what not panicking looks like,” Megan says, pushing past him and taking a seat in Ms. Chancellor’s plush leather chair. As soon as she touches the computer, the US State Department seal pop
s up on the screen along with a prompt for a username and password.
“She’s got to keep her password written down around here somewhere,” I say, looking at the meticulous desk.
“Ms. Chancellor? I don’t think so. Besides, I don’t need it.” Megan’s sparkly pink fingernails are a blur as they fly across the keys. Sixty seconds later she announces, “We’re in.”
We’re looking at a new screen now. It’s nothing like I’ve ever seen before. This isn’t the official US Foreign Service desktop. This is something different. It’s like we’re inside the computer’s brain, and Megan is its master.
She spins on us, watches our expressions change.
“Don’t let the glitter fool you.” She wiggles her shiny nails in the air, then taps her temple. “I’m up here.”
“I see that,” I say as Noah whispers a very soft, “I love you.”
“What?” Megan asks.
“Nothing,” Noah says, then pulls back and walks to the other side of the desk.
“Now, what is so urgent?” Megan asks me.
But I’m still flummoxed by what I’ve seen.
“How did you …?”
“My mom is the chief operations officer for the CIA stationed in Europe,” she tells me. “I pay attention.”
“I see that,” I say.
“Now what do you need?”
“I need to know everyone who was at the party at the palace last night.”
“Is that all?” Megan asks, like the least we could do is try to challenge her.
A few minutes later she’s hitting PRINT, and soon I’m looking down at a list of names. Hundreds of them. My hands start to tremble as I realize that one of them must belong to the man who killed my mother.
I can feel Noah looking over my shoulder.
“Is there any way to cross-reference that list with embassy ID photos or something?” he asks. “We don’t have a name. Just a face.”
“You need pictures?” Megan seems a little upset that we didn’t mention that in the first place.
“Yes. Why? Is that a problem?” I ask.
“No. It just means we’re looking in the wrong place.”
Megan goes to work, and three minutes later I’m looking at a screen filled with nothing but people in formal attire walking slowly toward a camera, yellow dots covering their faces.