against the wall, suddenly all too aware of how far I’ve wandered, the trouble I will be in if I get caught.
But I do not move. I cannot leave. I just slow my breathing and listen.
“I need to talk to you,” someone says in Adrian. And in my mind I feel cold and wet, like my dress is an ocean and I’m drowning inside it.
“Not now,” the second voice spits back.
Someone is in the hallway. Someone is coming closer. “This isn’t the end of this!” the first voice says. The second man laughs.
It is a cruel sound, high and haunting. And I am certain of one thing: I have heard it before.
“Of course it isn’t,” the man says at last. “If I’m right, then it is only beginning.”
I’m not sure when I started shaking, but I’m terrified they’ll hear me. I’m terrified they’ll see me. Just like when I overheard them in Iran.
Because if there is one thing I’m sure of, it is that these are the same voices that I heard in Iran.
I push myself farther into my little corner. I’m trying to disappear, willing myself to become one with the stone and the wood. And maybe the palace hears me and grants my wish because the wall behind me starts to move, pushing slowly inward as I push slowly back.
It’s a closet , I think as the blackness envelops me. I move into it as quickly as I can. The hem of my train catches and snags as I push the door silently shut behind me. There is still enough light coming in through a crack in the door for me to see movement in the hallway.
I shift and peek out. The floor creaks.
The dark figure outside spins and looks. “Who’s there?” he asks.
My breathing is so heavy I bring a hand up to cover my mouth. A slice of light cuts across my face, and the man is so close I can smell his cologne. He turns and looks up and down the hallway, as if somehow he knows that he is not alone.
He stops and opens the door of the cabinet I had been leaning against. His shadow crosses my face.
And that is when I see him — really see him.
He is no more than a foot away this time. Unlike the Iranian basement, the palace hallway is well lit. I will never again be able to convince myself that it was a trick of the light, a figment of my mind.
No. The man has dark hair speckled with gray. He wears a well-cut tux with gold cufflinks, an expensive watch, and a long black tie. His profile is handsome and perfect and strong with the exception of the jagged scar that runs from his eyebrow to his jaw.
The scar that is very real.
The scar that is perfectly clear.
The scar that has haunted my dreams every night since the moment my mother died — from the moment the Scarred Man killed her.
I press my hand against my mouth and swallow the cry that is rising in my throat. I don’t want the Scarred Man to hear me. To find me.
To kill me.
I press myself against the closet wall because my head is spinning and I’m afraid I might pass out. There isn’t enough air in the closet, in my chest. There isn’t enough air in the world.
But there also isn’t time to panic. Now is the time to think and process and act. Now is the time to survive.
“Grace, no!” I hear my mother call.
My mother would want me to survive.
I don’t know how long I stay in the closet. A minute. An hour. A year? When I finally push my way outside and retrace my steps I half expect to return to a different party. But the quartet is still playing. The people are still talking and dancing, not caring at all that the man who killed my mother is here.
He’s here! I want to scream and claw and wail until someone hears me. Until someone finally cares.
But the words don’t come. I’ve said it all before, after all. I’ve described the Scarred Man to my father and to Jamie. I told the military police and the cops from town. I told the doctors all about him.
Once, I even wrote the details in a note and sent it to my grandfather. But I never got an answer to that letter. Maybe he never got it. Or maybe he just didn’t
But I do not move. I cannot leave. I just slow my breathing and listen.
“I need to talk to you,” someone says in Adrian. And in my mind I feel cold and wet, like my dress is an ocean and I’m drowning inside it.
“Not now,” the second voice spits back.
Someone is in the hallway. Someone is coming closer. “This isn’t the end of this!” the first voice says. The second man laughs.
It is a cruel sound, high and haunting. And I am certain of one thing: I have heard it before.
“Of course it isn’t,” the man says at last. “If I’m right, then it is only beginning.”
I’m not sure when I started shaking, but I’m terrified they’ll hear me. I’m terrified they’ll see me. Just like when I overheard them in Iran.
Because if there is one thing I’m sure of, it is that these are the same voices that I heard in Iran.
I push myself farther into my little corner. I’m trying to disappear, willing myself to become one with the stone and the wood. And maybe the palace hears me and grants my wish because the wall behind me starts to move, pushing slowly inward as I push slowly back.
It’s a closet , I think as the blackness envelops me. I move into it as quickly as I can. The hem of my train catches and snags as I push the door silently shut behind me. There is still enough light coming in through a crack in the door for me to see movement in the hallway.
I shift and peek out. The floor creaks.
The dark figure outside spins and looks. “Who’s there?” he asks.
My breathing is so heavy I bring a hand up to cover my mouth. A slice of light cuts across my face, and the man is so close I can smell his cologne. He turns and looks up and down the hallway, as if somehow he knows that he is not alone.
He stops and opens the door of the cabinet I had been leaning against. His shadow crosses my face.
And that is when I see him — really see him.
He is no more than a foot away this time. Unlike the Iranian basement, the palace hallway is well lit. I will never again be able to convince myself that it was a trick of the light, a figment of my mind.
No. The man has dark hair speckled with gray. He wears a well-cut tux with gold cufflinks, an expensive watch, and a long black tie. His profile is handsome and perfect and strong with the exception of the jagged scar that runs from his eyebrow to his jaw.
The scar that is very real.
The scar that is perfectly clear.
The scar that has haunted my dreams every night since the moment my mother died — from the moment the Scarred Man killed her.
I press my hand against my mouth and swallow the cry that is rising in my throat. I don’t want the Scarred Man to hear me. To find me.
To kill me.
I press myself against the closet wall because my head is spinning and I’m afraid I might pass out. There isn’t enough air in the closet, in my chest. There isn’t enough air in the world.
But there also isn’t time to panic. Now is the time to think and process and act. Now is the time to survive.
“Grace, no!” I hear my mother call.
My mother would want me to survive.
I don’t know how long I stay in the closet. A minute. An hour. A year? When I finally push my way outside and retrace my steps I half expect to return to a different party. But the quartet is still playing. The people are still talking and dancing, not caring at all that the man who killed my mother is here.
He’s here! I want to scream and claw and wail until someone hears me. Until someone finally cares.
But the words don’t come. I’ve said it all before, after all. I’ve described the Scarred Man to my father and to Jamie. I told the military police and the cops from town. I told the doctors all about him.
Once, I even wrote the details in a note and sent it to my grandfather. But I never got an answer to that letter. Maybe he never got it. Or maybe he just didn’t
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