I was thirteen when I saw my mother die, when I told my story. When I started “having a hard time,” as my grandfather likes to say. Would they have locked me up if I’d been thirty? If I’d been a boy? It’s a question I do not dare to ask.
“Grace?” Noah’s scratchy voice cuts through the air. “Grace, are you there?”
Before I can stop her, Rosie pulls the walkie-talkie from my limp hand.
“Noah,” she says into it. “This is Rosie. Hang back twenty meters and do not cross the street. We’re going to get ahead of him.”
She hands the walkie-talkie back to me. “This is how you do it.”
I am a natural tree climber, swimmer, and window-crawler-outer. Turns out, what Rosie does best is disappear.
She’s small enough that she weaves, totally unseen, through the crowded market. She blends in easily among the tourists that gather outside the palace. And when the man with the scar stops cold and turns, he walks right past her — and Rosie lets him — as if both of them are exactly where they are supposed to be.
For the most part, Noah and I do as we’re told. When she says to get on a streetcar, we get on. When she tells us to split up and wait on opposite corners outside the national cathedral, we do that, too. We are students of a twelve-year-old ninja. And we have a lot to learn.
When the Scarred Man comes out of the church and turns onto a street I’ve never really seen before, I am the one who is closest, so it’s my job to follow.
The Romans built this part of town and I’m walking on cobblestones a thousand years older than my home nation. The world has changed. Wars raged and governments rose and fell, but the streets of Valancia have stayed exactly the same. Curving, twisting, climbing.
As I follow the man who killed my mother up the winding street, there is a moment when I realize that I am not afraid. I’m actually happy that there is something real that I can do. If I can see him I can follow him. And if I can follow him I can find proof of what happened three years ago. And then I can do what they’ve been telling me to do ever since that fateful night: Move on.
There’s laughter on the street behind me. A little girl holds tightly to her brother’s hand.
“Jamie, come on!”
“There’s nothing down there, Gracie.”
“But I saw Momma come this way.”
“No. See, Grace, Mom isn’t here.”
“Grace?” Noah says. “Grace, are you there?”
We’ve ditched the walkie-talkies and are on a three-way cell phone call. There’s a micro-receiver in my ear. I feel like James Bond. That is, if James Bond ever went into the field with twelve-year-old former gymnasts.
“Do you have eyes on him?” Rosie asks.
“Not yet,” I say as the street curves slightly. I ease silently around, waiting for a clean line of sight. “I” — I stagger to a stop and no longer try to muffle my voice — “lost him. I lost him.”
“What?” Noah snaps.
“It’s a dead end,” I say. “The road curves and then it just … stops. It stops right here.”
“He must have doubled back,” Rosie tells me. “You must have missed him.”
“Did you look away for a while?” Noah asks. “Were you distracted by something?”
For a second I can’t answer. I think about the memory.
“No … I mean, I didn’t miss him,” I say, looking around at the empty street that had been growing gradually more and more narrow. Where I stand it’s not much more than an alley, and I am alone. There is no way I missed a car or a pedestrian. It would have been obvious.
The Scarred Man didn’t double back. The Scarred Man disappeared.
I stand there for a long time, looking at the empty alley, and thinking about that little girl who was certain she had seen her mother come this way. Not for the first time I have to wonder where my mother went and why I couldn’t follow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Scarred Man is boring.
At least that’s what he pretends to be over the next three days. When he isn’t at the prime minister’s side, he sits at a sidewalk café drinking a single cup of coffee and reading the morning paper. He looks at books he doesn’t buy and shops for groceries that he leaves in the store to be delivered later. He certainly never has any clandestine meetings where he talks about killing my mother. At least not that I can detect.
Eventually, Rosie gets bored and Noah gets busy, and only my mother’s memory is with me, looking in shop windows and eating gelato on hot days.
I try following the Scarred Man again on my own, but I lose him in the market. It feels as if Dominic is not the only one who has disappeared down a dead end. There is absolutely nowhere else for my investigation to take me. So that’s why I’m standing on Embassy Row on an overcast day, looking down the street to where it curves out of sight. I am looking for another angle.
And then I spot Alexei.
He’s alone as he leaves the Russian embassy. He walks next door and talks to one of our marines, who shakes his head, then laughs. Alexei laughs, too. The whole thing feels surreal. I feel almost guilty — like I shouldn’t be spying on Alexei.
Alexei who disappeared inside the palace.
Alexei who was upstairs right before the Scarred Man met with some mysterious accomplice.
Alexei who saw me at my lowest and who I will never, ever forgive for witnessing my shame.
Maybe I think he’s involved somehow. Maybe I’m just here for practice. Or maybe I simply like the way Alexei looks from behind. I’m not thinking about why as I watch him walk away.
Alexei doesn’t see me. I watch him pass on the other side of the street, wait until he’s up ahead and then step out to follow him. I don’t know what I’m hoping to gain. I only hope that there’s nothing more that I can lose.
When Alexei turns and starts up one of the steep streets that leads to the palace and the city center, I don’t think twice. I turn the corner … and run right into Lila.
“What are you doing here?” she huffs.
Over her shoulder, I see Alexei’s father has joined him on the street. He’s yelling at his son. Alexei skulks forward, almost like he’s in trouble. But that can’t be possible. Alexei is the Russian Jamie. Alexei can do no wrong.
“Are you listening?” Lila snaps.