“Your father felt that it might be best if you had some space, because …”
He trails off then, but I recognize the silence that follows.
“Because I went crazy,” I fill in. “It’s okay, Grandpa. You can say it.”
“Because you were having a hard time.”
“So that’s the term we’re using now.” For some reason, I have to laugh. “How … diplomatic.”
“Grace,” Ms. Chancellor says, her voice a warning.
“Do you want to hear about the fire?” I ask him, ignoring her. “I was there. I remember everything,” I say, but I don’t elaborate. I may be crazy, but I’m not stupid. There are words I have stricken from my vocabulary completely.
Murder.
Arson.
Homicide.
Scar.
I know it’s no use, and so I do not mention the man I saw — the one who didn’t appear on a single surveillance camera and wasn’t seen by any other witness. It’s no use to talk about the scar that was on his face — the one that was so clichéd and manically sinister that everyone assumed my mind had pulled him straight from central casting.
I don’t tell my grandfather that my mother’s antique store was ransacked. I don’t say that when the building burst into flames, it sounded like a bomb.
These are the things I never say to anyone anymore. Not because I don’t want to say them — I want to scream them. But these are the things that no one else can bear to hear.
“It was an accident, Grace. Your mother died in a terrible, tragic accident.” His voice cracks. Tears well in his eyes.
“I’m not crazy.” My voice stays steady. My eyes don’t tear up. For one split second I feel victorious. But I haven’t won a thing.
“Go to bed, Gracie.” He steps through the embassy gates, past the marines who are constantly standing guard. “You’ve had a long flight and a long day. Tomorrow will be longer. Lots to do.”
“Good night, dear,” Ms. Chancellor tells me, the lecture over.
I don’t say anything back. I just shuffle, dirty and cold, toward the doors.
I can sleep anywhere. Planes. Trains. Sofas. Lawn chairs. Call it the upside to life as an army brat. Never having a home means, I guess, that everywhere is your home. There is absolutely no place I’m anxious to return to. But this is different.
I’m not trying to fall asleep in someplace new; I’m in a place that’s old. And that’s why I find myself lying in my mother’s bed, staring up at the pink canopy overhead and studying the shadows that dance across the walls as the wind blows through the limbs of the tree outside my window. When at last I fall asleep, I dream I’m trapped, my wrists bound. I toss and turn. Even my subconscious wants to figure out a way to break free.
“Hey.”
The voice is soft in my head. I think for a moment that Alexei has invaded my dream, so I turn over, mumble some insult.
“Hey,” the voice says louder.
And then a hand lands on my bare shoulder. I don’t even bother waking, not really. My brother goes to West Point. My father is an Army Ranger. Asleep Me can handle this.
Still groggy, I roll over and grab the hand. And before I’m even off the bed, the boy is on the floor. When I finally find myself fully awake, I’m standing over him.
“Grace!” he half yells, half whispers.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.”
My hair is falling into my eyes. The old T-shirt I’m wearing is about three sizes too big and hangs off of me weirdly, leaving one shoulder bare. I probably look as freaky as I feel. And I’m glad for it.
I wrench the boy’s hand farther back, holding his thumb with my other hand.
“I can break it.”
But the boy doesn’t scream. He doesn’t cry out. He just looks up at me. And smiles.
“Hi, Grace. I’m Noah,” he says. “I’m here to be your best friend.”