I run until my lungs want to burst and my legs turn to noodles. I hear nothing but the pounding of my feet against the hard-packed dirt. I feel nothing but the stinging slap of the tree branches and thorny vines that swipe against my face and scratch my legs. But I can’t stop. I have to go faster, higher, stronger.
I have to outrun the past.
Even after I break free from the brush that covers the path I keep running until I literally cannot run anymore. I skid to a stop, kicking at pebbles that tumble down the cliff and splash into the sea. Only then can I let myself breathe.
At the top of the cliffs, the air that blows off the Mediterranean is warm and wet. It pushes my hair from my face as I stand here, hands outstretched, desperate to fly. But I can’t fly. And I won’t jump. No matter how much I want to, regardless of how deep I know the water off the shoreline is.
I am not supposed to jump off the cliffs anymore. I’m not supposed to take chances or tempt fate. Besides, my grandfather and Ms. Chancellor have been watching my every move for days. If I come back to the embassy with bruises, they’ll see them. If I pick at my food they’ll ask why. And so I stand on this ridge, high above the city, hiding in plain sight, pretending to be an ordinary girl.
Just your average teenager who recently learned she shot and killed her own mother.
“Grace!” My name comes flying on a breeze that smells like smoke. When I close my eyes I hear glass shatter, a woman scream.
“Grace! No!”
The cries haven’t changed in years, but now I know what they mean. Now I know she’s not trying to make me run. She’s trying to make me stop — to put down the gun I’m holding. She is trying to tell me that it’s okay and that the Scarred Man — that Dominic — isn’t trying to hurt her. But it’s too late. In every sense of the word.
I shake my head, try to clear away the smoky haze. But the words come again.
“Grace, no!”
I clench my hands together so tightly that my nails almost draw blood.
“Grace, stop!”
The voice is too deep, too close. Too real. And that’s what makes me spin. As I do, the rocks beneath my feet shift. I’ve ventured too close to the edge and I can feel the ground beneath me giving way, crumbling, and soon I, too, am falling. The wind rushes up to greet me, and for one split second, I am free.
But then a hand reaches me. It grasps my arm and I’m jerked back. Instead of stone, I slam against a hard, broad chest, and then we topple to the ground. Arms come up to hold me, squeezing me so tightly I can’t fight. I am frozen. Trapped. Then the boy beneath me rolls, forcing my back to the ground as he looms overhead, making certain there is no place left for me to fall.
I don’t understand what Noah says next, but I’m pretty sure it’s in Portuguese and probably vulgar. He’s breathing so hard and we’re so close that I can actually feel his chest rise and fall. Even though we’re lying on the ground, it’s like he’s run a marathon — like he’s still running. Chasing after me.
He curses again and then spits out, “What were you doing, Grace? What were you thinking?”
He isn’t angry, I can tell. He’s terrified. Even after he leans back and lets me go, his hands are still shaking.
“You told me you’d never jump off of here again. You promised!”
“I wasn’t jumping,” I say — but Noah doesn’t believe me. He wants to, but he can’t.
It’s not his fault that he’s not stupid.
I try again. “I wasn’t going to jump, Noah. I swear.”
When he leans toward me, I can’t help myself; I scoot away.
“You’re lying,” he says.
“No. I’m not. I just come up here sometimes. To think.”
“To think about what? Jumping?”
“No!” I stand, and the wind blows in my face again. There are no more traces of smoke. The air is salty and brisk, slapping me awake. Still, it’s almost like a dream when I say, “My mom, okay? Sometimes I come up here and think about my mom.”
“Oh.” Noah eases back.
“What are you doing here, Noah?” I ask, suddenly worried that maybe Dominic isn’t the only person who has been watching my every move. Maybe I’ve just been too sloppy to notice.
“What am I doing here?” Noah throws his hands out wide then rests his elbows on his bent knees. “Well, I haven’t seen you in a week. You are my best friend. And sometimes I like to check and make sure my friends aren’t dead. There. Did I cover it all? I think I got it all.”
It sounds good, but I’m not buying it, so I ask again, “What are you doing here?”
Noah pushes to his feet and hastily brushes the dust off of his khaki shorts and dark T-shirt.
“What am I doing here?” he snaps. “What do you think I’m doing? I followed you! I saw you running down the street like a madwoman, so I followed you, because …”
He trails off, unwilling or unable to go on, so I finish for him.
“I’m a madwoman.”
“Because I was worried about you, okay?” Noah looks at the sea then back to where I stand, dusty and wind-blown. My arms and legs are scratched and probably bleeding. “Can you blame me?” he asks.
I can’t, but I don’t dare say so.
“I’m not going to leave, you know,” Noah says when my silence is too much. “You can’t run me off. It’s too late for that. We’ve done international espionage together. We’re bonded for life.”