The Israeli embassy looks different in the light of morning. The building itself sits farther back than the other embassies on the street, but the Israelis have built a new wall that juts up directly against the sidewalk. It is the only embassy on the row that has two.
“Hi,” I greet the guard outside the main gates. The guard studies me but doesn’t say a thing. “I’m here to see —”
“Grace?”
When I turn, I notice a small pedestrian-only gate along the side of the building. That is where Noah stands, looking at me through the bars. It’s like I’m visiting him in prison. Or more like he is visiting me.
There is a loud buzz and then Noah pushes on the gate, comes toward me.
“Well, hello, Cinderella,” he says with a roguish grin. “I should have known you would come back, looking for your slipper. The ladies always come back. But you’re too late. I’ll have you know the Dowager Countess of Capri was all over me last night after your untimely exit.”
“That’s nice,” I say.
“Not really. She’s my grandmother’s age. But feistier. Way, way feistier.”
Noah gives a whole-body shake like someone has just walked over his grave.
“So, where’d you go?” For once, Noah sounds serious.
“Back,” I say. I don’t tell him back to where. He doesn’t have to know I’m not talking about the embassy — that I’m talking about going back to the darkest corners of my memory. Going back in time.
“Can we go somewhere?” I say.
“I’m already going somewhere,” he tells me, holding up the backpack he carries as if it’s proof.
“Where?”
“Brazil. We’re staying at Dad’s tonight. Lila’s already there. Come on. Walk with me.”
“But is there somewhere else we can go? Someplace private?”
My voice doesn’t sound like my own. I keep looking at my hands. In the past twelve hours my cuticles have become the most fascinating things ever. I can’t look anyone in the eye anymore. I’m afraid of what else I might see.
“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.”