See How They Run (Embassy Row, #2)

This isn’t even about an international embarrassment or situation.

There is no longer any question of whether or not Spence’s death was an accident.

Someone killed him. And now someone has tried to kill Alexei — someone did kill the Russian driver — and, finally, the authorities have noticed. Finally, the authorities might care.

“So?” I ask again. “Do you know who planted the bomb?”

The look that passes between the two strangers is equal parts guilt and confusion.

“We actually have several questions for you, Grace.” The man in the suit speaks to me in English. “Would you prefer we discuss this in Adrian? I was told you are fluent.”

“I am.” I try to nod and smile.

“But perhaps this is a good opportunity for me to practice my English,” he says with a slight British accent. “I attended Eton.”

“And now you’re a cop?”

“A detective, yes.” He glances at one of the uncomfortable chairs in the formal living room.

“Won’t you sit down?” Ms. Chancellor asks.

Her voice is so even, so kind and cool. She doesn’t look like a woman who, just a week ago, shot and seriously wounded the prime minister of Adria. No, she looks like a woman who really wants to get back to her filing.

But Ms. Chancellor isn’t going to leave me. The police probably aren’t supposed to question a minor without a parent or guardian present. I guess on Embassy Row it’s a parent, guardian, or the guardian’s chief of staff.

There’s a female officer, too. She must speak English, but so far she hasn’t said a thing. She just sits there, scowling. There’s not a doubt in my mind that she will remember every word.

Cautiously, I sit down next to Ms. Chancellor. My side aches, but I’m glad the back of my chair is so straight, the seat so hard. I have a feeling it would be a great mistake to get too comfortable around these people.

“I am very sorry about what happened to your friend,” the man tells me.

“Thanks. But they said on the news that he wasn’t in the car, so he’s probably okay.” I think about Alexei, all alone in that cave in the hills. “I hope he’s okay.”

“No.” The officer shakes his head, smiles. “I was talking about John Spencer.”

And then it hits me: They aren’t here about the bomb. Or not directly. This isn’t about the attack on the boy next door.

“John Spencer wasn’t my friend,” I say too quickly. “I mean, he was my brother’s friend. I barely knew him. You should talk to Jamie.”

“We’d love to. Where is he?” the man asks.

I don’t want to tell him I don’t know, that Jamie’s room is right next door to mine, but in so many ways it’s like he’s still on the other side of the world.

“Maybe we’ll just talk to you first, okay?” the man says, and leans back. He keeps smiling at me, though, a look that is supposed to put me at ease. He doesn’t know that I have been questioned by police officers before. Lots of times. I don’t need him to tell me to relax.

“So, Grace,” Officer Smiley says after a moment. “Where is Alexei Volkov?”

“I thought you were here to find out who killed John Spencer?”

“That investigation is ongoing. We’re here because of the manhunt.”

Manhunt.

From the moment I gave Alexei that drugged bottle of water I knew this was coming. I knew I was making him a fugitive, an outlaw. Suddenly, the Mediterranean coast feels more like the Wild West, and Alexei is supposed to be some villain on the run. It’s absurd.

“Manhunt?” My voice is shaking again, but this time for an entirely different reason. “Manhunt!” Fury consumes me. I’m aflame with righteous indignation. “Two people are dead. One more person should be dead except sheer dumb luck meant he wasn’t in the car at the time.”

“Now, Grace …” Smiley starts, but I don’t care what he has to say. I know they aren’t here because they’re worried someone tried to kill Alexei — worried that next time they’ll succeed. They aren’t even worried about who killed Spence. No, they’re here because Alexei is in the wind and Adria is embarrassed. And the crowds … the crowds aren’t going to go away.

“Do you know who tried to kill Alexei?” I ask. “Who killed his driver? Do you even care?”

“Grace.” Ms. Chancellor places her hand on my sleeve, pulls me back.

“The car had a mechanical malfunction.” Officer Smiley’s face is so straight, his expression so earnest, that it’s almost like he believes this ridiculous theory.

“Oh,” I say. “Is that what they’re calling bombs these days?”

“Grace,” Ms. Chancellor warns, but I shake her off.

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