I press my hand against my mouth and swallow the cry that is rising in my throat. I don’t want the Scarred Man to hear me. To find me.
To kill me.
I press myself against the closet wall because my head is spinning and I’m afraid I might pass out. There isn’t enough air in the closet, in my chest. There isn’t enough air in the world.
But there also isn’t time to panic. Now is the time to think and process and act. Now is the time to survive.
“Grace, no!” I hear my mother call.
My mother would want me to survive.
I don’t know how long I stay in the closet. A minute. An hour. A year? When I finally push my way outside and retrace my steps I half expect to return to a different party. But the quartet is still playing. The people are still talking and dancing, not caring at all that the man who killed my mother is here.
He’s here! I want to scream and claw and wail until someone hears me. Until someone finally cares.
But the words don’t come. I’ve said it all before, after all. I’ve described the Scarred Man to my father and to Jamie. I told the military police and the cops from town. I told the doctors all about him.
Once, I even wrote the details in a note and sent it to my grandfather. But I never got an answer to that letter. Maybe he never got it. Or maybe he just didn’t want to be one more person to tell me I was crazy.
It was an accident.
There was no Scarred Man.
You have no idea what you really saw.
But I do know. I know what, and I know who, and I know that I was right that night in the Iranian embassy.
The Scarred Man is in Adria. I’ve finally found him. But I don’t dare let him find me.
“Grace, your dress is ripped,” Noah says. He has been here for a long time, I realize. Talking to me. Trying to tease me into dancing or eating. But he’s not teasing anymore. “Grace, what happened to your dress?” Then he rethinks, asks a better question. “Grace, what happened to you?”
“I … I …”
“Grace, look at me!” Panic is seeping into Noah’s voice. I want to tell him that it’s going to be okay — that I’m going to be okay. But I can’t lie to Noah. Not even when I know it’s what he wants to hear.
“Ms. Chancellor,” Noah says, calling her over.
“Well, hello there, you two,” Ms. Chancellor says. “Don’t you look handsome, Noah? You make a very striking pair.”
There’s a twinkle in her eyes, and I know what she’s thinking. She’s playing matchmaker. She’s practically naming our children, taking credit for Noah and the most excellent influence he has been upon me.
“I was just telling the ambassador of France all about you, Grace. Her niece is visiting next month and I told her that you and I would love to —”
But then Ms. Chancellor looks at me. She must see the panic in my eyes, the way all the color has drained from my face. I’m sure I no longer share the rosy hue of my pink gown. I must be the color of paper.
“Grace, are you okay?”
I try to speak, but the words don’t come.
“Noah, take her home,” Ms. Chancellor commands, but Noah is one step ahead of her. He already has my arm and is guiding me to the door.
“I need to go home,” I mutter.
“I know,” Noah says. “Come on. I’ll take you back to the embassy.”
“No! I need to go home,” I say, but then the realization comes: My mother was my home. My mother is dead. And the man who killed her is wearing a tuxedo and an expensive watch and going to parties. The man who killed her is at this party.
“Where’s my grandpa? I need to talk to my grandpa.”
“He’s busy, Grace. Come on.”
We make it outside and Noah says something to one of the uniformed men. The car with US flags is coming toward us. Noah is leading me to the door.
“You’re going to be okay, Grace,” Noah tells me. “You probably just ate something funny or …”
I climb into the car, but before Noah can join me, I slam the door and tell the driver, “Go! Just go.”