I will not scream. I will not run. I will not lose control. Because, right now, my control might be all I have.
The man is coming closer, the slow, easy strides of someone out for an evening stroll. His hands are in his pockets. When he nears me, his smile widens.
“I’m Dominic,” the man says. “Forgive me if I scared you. I know your grandfather, so I thought I’d say hello. I shouldn’t have —”
“I’m not scared,” I blurt.
But he looks like maybe he knows better. “I’m an old friend of your mother’s.”
The Scarred Man is here. The Scarred Man is looking at me, smiling at me, and talking about my mother.
The flashlight in my sweater pocket is heavy and solid, not one of those cheap plastic numbers. It’s hardly a weapon, but it’s better than nothing. My fingers go around it, squeezing tight. I move my feet a little, staggering my stance, balancing my weight.
“You don’t know me, Grace.”
There’s a seriousness to his words. The pretense is gone. I know what he’s really saying when I tell him, “I know enough.”
He steps closer. I step back.
“And you’ve never been wrong about anything? Ever?”
I step farther back, into the glow of the streetlight. And when the Scarred Man joins me, for a second I cannot see his scar. It stays hidden in the shadows, and I’m looking at a man with broad shoulders and dark hair flecked with gray. He’s so handsome with his strong jaw and five-o’clock shadow. And I wonder for a second if he would still look evil if he didn’t have that scar.
The answer, I decide, is a definite, resounding yes.
There is something in his eyes as he tells me, “You look like her. When I first saw you — at the ball — I thought you were her. I can see a lot of your mother in you. And that is a very good thing.”
“You don’t know that,” I say.
But then the strangest thing happens. The Scarred Man laughs.
“You sound like her, too,” he tells me.
“You don’t know anything about her!” I snap.
But this doesn’t throw the Scarred Man at all. “We grew up together, Grace,” he says. “I knew your mother all of her life.”
Her life. Until he ended it.
“She used to love sneaking out her window when she was your age. Tell me, is that how you got out tonight? Did you climb down the tree? Or did you use the tunnels?”
Now I really can’t say anything.
The Japanese embassy is across the street. The gates for Australia are twenty yards away. There will be a guard posted. I could yell. I could run. I could —
But before I can even finish the thought, the Scarred Man steps away.
“You should go home now, Grace.” His face is covered in shadow. His voice is soft but strong. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
It takes a moment for the panic to come. And when it does, it descends slowly. Like all the oxygen is being sucked out of the air. It doesn’t matter that I’m outside. It makes no difference that the wind still blows off the sea. I’m running out of air.
Images are coming quickly, rapid-fire in my mind. I see my mother in her shop. The way the light reflects off of the gun. I hear the shot and smell the smoke.
The Scarred Man grabs her arm and I try to yell “No!” but the word is a silent sob.
My breath comes harder and harder. I can feel my heart pounding. It’s like my ears want to explode. I move with cautious, careful steps because I don’t want to lose my balance. I cannot bear to fall.
My fingers scrape against the wall of the embassy beside me. I double over, try to breathe. When I close my eyes I see the Scarred Man’s face, his left cheek in the light. But no. It can’t be his left check because there’s no scar. And for some reason that makes my breath come harder.
I’m going to suffocate in the middle of the street. I’m going to die, betrayed by my weakness. I’m not tough enough to live.
I want to go to Noah. To Megan. I want to yell for Rosie to sound every alarm in the great walled city, but I cannot go to them. Not anymore. So I force myself up the hill, past the little house where the marines are stationed. Past the gates where I live. I don’t dare stop at the gates of whatever traitor the Scarred Man came to meet.
So I walk on. And when I reach the next set of gates, I start to bang. There is a guard who doesn’t know how to react. He speaks to me in a language I don’t know.
And I choke out the only word that I can think to say.
“Alexei! I need to see —”
“Grace.”
He’s in the street behind me. Worry fills his face.
I should know better — be stronger — but I rush toward him. And when his arms go around me, I don’t fight them.
He isn’t the boy who warned me not to climb the wall. He’s the boy who gripped my hand as I lay on the courtyard, telling me not to look at the blood. Soothing me. Telling me it was going to be okay.
I still can’t breathe and he sees it, takes my face in his hands, forces me to stare into his eyes.
“It’s okay,” he says. “You’re going to be okay.” Then the boy next door takes my hands and pulls me away from the staring guard. We are not American and Russian — not enemies or allies. We are just a boy and a girl in the mood to run away.