“I know what you meant,” Ms. Chancellor says. “The Festival of the Fortnight begins tonight and the streets will be overrun with tourists. The death of an American citizen is bad for business.”
“Tourism is Adria’s largest industry. I won’t apologize for that fact. I can’t have Americans making speeches on television and calling for Russian heads on spikes. We haven’t done that in Adria for two hundred years, I’m happy to say.”
“Yes. Well, the last time it didn’t end so well, did it?” Grandpa challenges, finally getting into the fight.
The prime minister studies him, a glint in her eye. “No. It did not. And I believe we shall all spend the next two weeks remembering.”
“Irony is an amazing thing, is it not?” Ms. Chancellor says.
The women stare each other down with cool indifference that has to be anything but. Does she know the truth about Ms. Chancellor and her predecessor? Does Grandpa? How deep and how far does this conspiracy go?
But the adults around me are so calm. I half expect my grandfather to smile and say By the way, Alexandra, did you know Eleanor is the one who shot your predecessor and then had her secret society librarian friends orchestrate a massive international cover-up? Would you like some tea?
It’s Ms. Chancellor’s voice that finally breaks through my foggy brain. “Grace went to the party at about nine. She was home by ten-thirty. She and her brother would have passed at least two dozen surveillance cameras between here and the city gates, and you are welcome to check ours if you would like.”
“Mr. Spencer stayed at the party?” the woman asks me.
“Yes.”
“And the fight?”
“You’ve seen the video.”
“Yes. I have.” Her smile is so cold that I can’t help but remember that the last man who held her job wanted me dead. I start to wonder if that’s one of the responsibilities that comes with the position.
“There. Was that so hard?” the prime minister says. “However, I do also need to ask you to control your people, Mr. Ambassador. These things do have a tendency to turn ugly.”
“They are not my people. And they are not out of control.”
The woman laughs. “There is a mob outside, sir, who would disagree with you.” She pierces my grandfather with a glare and reaches for the door. “Valancian police will monitor the crowds and keep the peace on our side of the fence. I strongly urge you to do what you can from your side.” She shifts her gaze onto me. “Grace, it has been so nice to meet you. Now, I’m afraid I should be going.”
“Of course,” Grandpa tells her. “It’s a busy day. I appreciate you taking the time.”
When she reaches the door she stops and looks back. “We’ll reach a solution, William. And the US will be happy with it.”
As soon as the prime minister is gone, I look at Grandpa. I’m pretty sure he’s already noticed that it wasn’t a question.
After I leave my grandpa’s office I lie on my bed for hours, wondering what’s worse, the chanting of the mob outside or the pounding that fills my head. Over and over and over. I know that it can’t kill me, and yet I think it might. Maybe a part of me wishes that it would. Anything to make the pounding stop.
I have to make the pounding stop.
Before I realize it, I’m bolting from my room and down the stairs at the back of the building. They’re only used by staff, so no one sees me as I push out into the courtyard, chasing the pound, pound, pound that beats like a telltale heart, reminding me over and over that something is terribly wrong. After all, it’s not the first time I’ve found Jamie shooting hoops behind the embassy. It’s just the first time I’ve ever found him here alone.
“Jamie!” I yell, but it’s like he doesn’t even hear me.
“Jamie!” I shout again, but my brother keeps dribbling the basketball, bouncing it hard against the pavement. He doesn’t even look in my direction.
At the back of the embassy, the noise from the mob is softer, but I can still hear the chanting — the steady roar that rages, demanding justice be done. But no one asks for the truth.
When I walk closer, Jamie stops dribbling long enough to take aim at the basket. The ball swooshes through — nothing but net — and my brother grabs it, starts dribbling again. Pound, pound, pound. It makes me want to scream.
“Hey!” I shout. When Jamie shoots again, I grab the ball as soon as it drops through the net and hold it just out of my brother’s reach.
“Give me the ball, Gracie.” It’s like he’s just now noticed that I’m here.
“How are you?”
“How do you think I am?”
He’s right. He doesn’t have to answer my question. I can see the truth in his dark eyes and the set of his jaw. There’s an anger in my brother that I have never seen before. He’s pulsing with it. And a part of me wonders if that was really the pounding that has filled my head all day.