“It’s an old newspaper. So what?”
“Look closely, Grace. Look closely.”
Then Ms. Chancellor places a black-and-white photograph over the newspaper. The picture is glossy and new, but it’s the same image as the one in the paper. Identical. Almost. It’s a slightly wider shot and, in it, you can see the people in the background, aids and guards and …
“Look,” Ms. Chancellor says, pointing to the Scarred Man. Only his arm had been visible in the paper, but in this picture you can see Dominic clearly as he stands at the prime minister’s side.
I recognize the handsome features, the salt-and-pepper hair. But the face, I know, is different.
“Is that —” I start slowly.
“It’s Dominic.”
But there’s no scar on his left cheek. His skin is smooth, his face handsome. He is spectacularly handsome.
“So? What’s an old picture supposed to prove?” I toss the file at her.
“It’s not that old, Grace.”
“I’m telling you,” I start again. “I know what I saw.”
“Yes.” Ms. Chancellor comes closer, sounds almost desperate as she says, “And you’re saying that three years ago, you saw a man with a scar murder your mother. Is that right?”
“No.” I shake my head and point at Dominic. “I’m saying that I saw that man — with that scar — murder my mother.”
Pity fills Ms. Chancellor’s face, and I don’t know why. I only know that I hate it.
“Look at the date, Grace,” she says softly as she picks up the newspaper and holds it out to me. “Look at the date.”
I do as I’m told, but something is wrong. Something doesn’t make sense.
“It took me a while to track it down,” Ms. Chancellor says. “I had hoped that maybe you wouldn’t have to see this — that you’d believe us. Move on. But now …”
“Now what?” I say, my throat too dry — my voice too scratchy.
“This photo was taken three days before your mother died, Grace,” she tells me.
“No.” I’m shaking my head and backing away. I have to get out of this room — this moment. I have to get out before it kills me. “No. That’s not possible.”
“He had no scar, Grace. Even you must realize that there’s no way a scar could form in three days. At the time your mother died, Dominic had no scar.”
“I saw him. He was there.”
I don’t realize I’m sitting until my fingernails start digging into the upholstery of the uncomfortable chair.
“I know what it must feel like, wanting someone to blame.” Ms. Chancellor crouches on the floor in front of me. Her hands are very warm as they rest on top of mine. “But all this blame, Grace. This anger. It’s time to let it go.”
“I know what I saw,” I tell her, but my voice is too frail. I can’t stop thinking about Noah’s words: If a scarred man makes a threat in a forest, ever wonder why you’re the only one around to hear it?
“I saw him. I saw …”
Ms. Chancellor shakes her head and squeezes my hands. “He’s just a man with a scar, Grace. He’s just a man.”
I want to tell her that she’s wrong — that he’s been having meetings in Iran and running around in secret tunnels.
But then again, I realize, so have I.
I sit in the darkness, the pink canopy hanging overhead. There’s a tap at the window. I walk to the glass and see a tuft of white-blond hair peeking over the sill as Rosie stands, perfectly balanced, on the limb of the tree outside.
“Grace!” she calls softly through the glass. “Let me in.”
She smiles. Her eyes shine in the moonlight, and in the darkness, my reflection blends into her image. I’m twelve years old again, climbing trees and chasing after the big kids.
I am about to get hurt.
“Grace.” Rosie taps against the glass again. “Come on.”
I reach for the window and smile down at her.
“Be careful out there, Rosie,” I say and draw the blinds.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“Good morning, Grace,” Dr. Rainier says two days later. She’s French and very thin. She wears black cigarette pants and a white linen tunic, and she’s so pretty it almost hurts to look at her. It’s like getting your head shrunk by Audrey Hepburn.
“How are you today?” she asks.
I don’t answer.
I’m not staging a rebellion here. This isn’t a silent protest. I stay quiet because I don’t want to break down, and I learned a long time ago that, sometimes, the only way to silence the cries is by making no sound at all. So I shrug and bite my lip. I do not utter a single word.
“Do you know why you’re here?” she asks. I nod because I do know. I’m here because thirty-six hours ago I humiliated my grandfather and jumped from a balcony. I’m here because, for once, I don’t want to see anyone get hurt.
Not even me.
“Good,” she goes on. “I’ve had an opportunity to talk to some of the physicians you saw in the States. They all told me to tell you hello. Everyone likes you, Grace. Everyone wants you to get well.”
I shrug, but still I don’t say a thing. Even if she’s not lying, I know she can’t possibly be right.
R U OK?
I look down at the text from Jamie. I haven’t taken any of his calls. He’s no doubt talked to Alexei by now. And Grandpa. He’ll be worried, but I don’t want to lie to him, and I don’t want to tell him the truth, so I don’t say anything at all. At least Dad is on a mission and out of reach. I don’t think I could handle him storming the embassy and taking me home. Wherever that is.
I turn my phone off and place it on the table by the bed. For once, the embassy is silent. It’s the last day of the G-20 summit and everyone is too busy to worry about me.
Well, almost everyone.
When Noah appears in my room it is with a great deal of fanfare. He doesn’t just walk in. He has to grab the doorframe and practically whip himself inside — like some kind of self-contained slingshot.
“Hello, stranger. How have you been?” he asks, but he doesn’t hold my gaze when he says it. It’s not like he’s actually looking for an answer. He’s the one person smart enough to know that I’m not going to give one.