I’m not sure which channel the TV is on, but as soon as the picture becomes clear, I recognize the fire, the hits, and the words of the boy next door.
“I will kill you.”
I grab the remote control and click to the next station. And the next. And the next. On every one, the footage is the same — a constant loop of violence mixed in with the droning of “experts,” none of whom actually know Alexei. But that doesn’t stop them from talking. Words like diplomatic immunity and Adria and murder fill my room like a fog. Like smoke.
And on the bottom of every screen scrolls the same clear message: Murdered West Point Cadet Brutally Attacked and Threatened by Russian Ambassador’s Son.
We live in a twenty-four-hour news cycle, and as I slept, the world started to care about a stupid fight at a stupid party. About two stupid boys who just had to lash out at each other.
Because of me.
“Where are you going?” Rosie says when I bolt from my room. I can feel her behind me, keeping pace at my heels, but I don’t slow down.
“Grace, where are you going?” Megan calls.
“To fix it.”
“You can’t fix it!” Megan says, but I’m not listening.
“Where’s my grandpa?” I ask her, barreling down the stairs of the residence, racing toward the offices. “Have you seen him? We have to issue a statement, or …”
It’s not until I reach the landing that I hear the noise — the yells. It’s different from the shouting on the beach. These aren’t cries of fear or terror. No, it’s lower somehow. A steady, rumbling hum on the other side of the big round window that looks out onto the street.
And then I see them. The entire street is blocked off, and where there are usually buses and pedestrians, at least a hundred people stand. They carry signs and American flags and chant, demanding justice. Russia’s gates are tightly closed against the mob, but their cries fill the street.
Rosie cuts her eyes at me. “It’s too late to fix it.”
My friends don’t follow me to my grandfather’s office, and I can’t blame them. Embassy kids are supposed to be good at blending into the wallpaper and making ourselves scarce. We’re not supposed to charge into the center of international drama. But I’m pretty sure we’re not supposed to cause any international drama either. That’s why I find myself pushing down the hall, rushing toward the big double doors that are almost always closed, especially to me.
But when I notice they’re open just a crack, I stop. When I hear voices, I can’t help myself. I listen.
“We will have to speak with her.” I don’t recognize the woman’s voice, so I risk creeping a little closer and allow myself to peek through the slim crack in the open door.
“Now, I just don’t think that’s gonna be possible.” Grandpa’s tone is hard, but the Tennessee is heavy in his voice. Whatever he wants, he’s trying to get it with his own special cocktail of charm and determination.
“You may posture and complain all you like, Mr. Ambassador. But Adrian officials must be allowed to interview the girl.”
“Absolutely not,” my grandpa says, and I don’t have to wonder what girl they might be speaking of.
The girl who is too fragile.
The girl who is too weak.
The girl who is too broken.
“Why don’t you question the boy?” From Grandpa, it isn’t a question. It’s a challenge. And my first thought is my brother. Grandpa sees no reason to hide Jamie.
But then the woman says, “The boy is here on a black passport. Of course we haven’t questioned him.”
Now I know they’re speaking about Alexei.
I’m not surprised to hear the Russians are playing the diplomatic immunity card, but I wish they weren’t. After all, Alexei doesn’t have anything to hide. Alexei isn’t me.
I hear the clicking of high heels, watch a white-haired woman walk across my grandfather’s office, admiring the art on the walls as if she has all day to answer the US ambassador’s questions.
“I have come as a favor, Mr. Ambassador.”
“Are we really going to be so formal, Madame Prime Minister? You used to call me Bill. Or William when you were angry.”
“And you used to be a better flirt,” the woman says. “I didn’t have to come to you myself, you know.”
“I do know.” Grandpa nods. “And I thank you.”
“I could step outside right now and tell the world that the US is refusing to cooperate with this investigation. Would you prefer I do that?”
“Threats, Alexandra? And here I thought we were having so much fun.”
“I am here because we want a resolution.”
“As do we,” Grandpa says.
“We cannot have this spiraling into something more of a spectacle than it already is.”
“You call the death of a West Point candidate a spectacle?”
“With all due respect, Mr. Ambassador, there are approximately two hundred people and two dozen television cameras outside at this very moment who are proving my point for me.”
“A United States citizen is dead and —”
“Alexei didn’t do it!”
When I push open the doors and step inside I see them look around as if wondering whether or not their discussion might have conjured me. Well, now I’m in their midst, and I can tell that neither of them is entirely sure what to do about it.