Seven weeks Jamie and I have been gone—but my grandfather has aged ten years.
Megan turns up the volume in time to hear him tell the press, “We are extremely pleased that the perpetrator of this terrible, random crime has been caught and that Alexei Volkov’s name has been cleared. Our relationship with our neighbors is very important. Ambassador Volkov and I have spoken, and I look forward to everything returning to normal as both of our countries get back to the important diplomatic work for which we are here.”
When Grandpa glances behind him, I recognize the stoic man who stands watching, partly because the younger, only slightly less stoic version of him is in front of me.
If Alexei feels any emotion at seeing his father, he doesn’t show it. His dad was willing to throw him to the wolves, after all. The man on the screen doesn’t look relieved to have his son’s name cleared. He looks like a man who will never be truly pleased about anything ever again.
“Alexei!” Rosie is running, practically throwing herself into his arms. He has to release his hold on me to catch her. “It’s so great! You’re cleared! You’re free. You didn’t do it! I mean, we always knew you didn’t do it, but now everyone knows, and you’re free!”
But Alexei doesn’t look free. He looks furious.
He turns on me. “What did you do, Gracie?”
“Alexei, you can come home!” Rosie says, blissfully unaware of the storm that’s brewing in Alexei’s blue eyes.
It’s only when Noah peels her from Alexei that Rosie begins to realize something is wrong.
“It’s not that simple, Ro,” Noah says.
“But …” Rosie starts.
She looks from Noah to Alexei, then to me.
“Gracie, what did you do?” Alexei asks again.
“I got you cleared,” I say, as if the details don’t really matter. They shouldn’t. But they do.
“Grace?” Now Megan’s sounding worried.
“I asked the prime minister, okay? When I turned myself in to the Society, I said that I had some conditions. Clearing your name was one of them.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me this?”
“I didn’t think it mattered! Or, well, I didn’t think they’d do it. I kind of ran out on them. Literally.”
“You bargained for my freedom?” Alexei says, as if it’s a bad thing.
“You didn’t do it, Alexei! You were the most wanted man in Europe for something you didn’t do.”
“And what of that man they arrested, Gracie?” Alexei points to the screen. “What did he do?”
“I’m sure he did something,” I blurt, but I’m far from certain.
“Most of the world was sure that I’d done something.”
“Maybe he really is the killer. We don’t know. We may never know. And now you … you can go home.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“You have to,” I snap. But when I look around, I know arguing is futile.
“You seem to think we’re giving you a choice,” Megan says.
She isn’t especially tall. She’s not obviously strong. But right now—in this moment—I know it would take half the NATO forces in Europe to drag her off this train. She isn’t just with me; she’s with me. And there’s nothing I can do to stop her.
“Fine.” Noah shrugs, then turns to me. “Where do we start?”
It’s a great question—really the only question. And for all the hours and miles that this truth has been chasing me, the finish line remains elusive. I honestly have no idea what to say. But when I look at Alexei I see a spark there. Well, not a spark, but something …
“What?” I ask.
Alexei runs a hand through his hair. It’s thick and black and too long at the moment. It ripples through his fingers like black waves.
“I was afraid you were going to say this, so …”
“So what?” I ask.
He eyes me. “So I didn’t come alone.”
Instantly, terror grips me.
“If Jamie and Dominic are in Europe, then—”
“Not your brother,” Alexei cuts me off, then reaches for the backpack he’s been carrying. There’s a duffel bag, too, which we picked up at the train station. I’d just assumed they held clothes, shoes. Weapons. But I was wrong. I know it as soon as Alexei clears off a table and upends the backpack over it, sending papers and Post-it notes, tiny leather-bound books and photographs scattering below.
“I’m confused,” Rosie says, hands on hips. “How is a bag full of junk going to help us?”
But I’m reaching for the pile. I run one finger along the glossy surface of a photograph as I say, “It’s my mother’s junk. She kept it in a secret room beneath her shop.”
I seem to have Rosie at “secret room” because she leans closer to the pile and mutters what I assume is the German equivalent of awesome.
“My mother collected all this. She collected it, and she kept it hidden.”
Megan meets my gaze, finishes my thought. “And you only hide the things that matter.”
She turns her attention to the pile. Noah, too. Soon, four sets of hands are shuffling and sorting. I stand a little apart. I hurt everything I touch, after all. I’m half-afraid that my fingers might make it catch fire.
“Grace.”
Megan’s voice brings me back.