want to be one more person to tell me I was crazy.
It was an accident.
There was no Scarred Man.
You have no idea what you really saw.
But I do know. I know what, and I know who, and I know that I was right that night in the Iranian embassy.
The Scarred Man is in Adria. I’ve finally found him. But I don’t dare let him find me.
“Grace, your dress is ripped,” Noah says. He has been here for a long time, I realize. Talking to me. Trying to tease me into dancing or eating. But he’s not teasing anymore. “Grace, what happened to your dress?” Then he rethinks, asks a better question. “Grace, what happened to you?”
“I … I …”
“Grace, look at me!” Panic is seeping into Noah’s voice. I want to tell him that it’s going to be okay — that I’m going to be okay. But I can’t lie to Noah. Not even when I know it’s what he wants to hear.
“Ms. Chancellor,” Noah says, calling her over.
“Well, hello there, you two,” Ms. Chancellor says. “Don’t you look handsome, Noah? You make a very striking pair.”
There’s a twinkle in her eyes, and I know what she’s thinking. She’s playing matchmaker. She’s practically naming our children, taking credit for Noah and the most excellent influence he has been upon me.
“I was just telling the ambassador of France all about you, Grace. Her niece is visiting next month and I told her that you and I would love to —”
But then Ms. Chancellor looks at me. She must see the panic in my eyes, the way all the color has drained from my face. I’m sure I no longer share the rosy hue of my pink gown. I must be the color of paper.
“Grace, are you okay?”
I try to speak, but the words don’t come.
“Noah, take her home,” Ms. Chancellor commands, but Noah is one step ahead of her. He already has my arm and is guiding me to the door.
“I need to go home,” I mutter.
“I know,” Noah says. “Come on. I’ll take you back to the embassy.”
“No! I need to go home,” I say, but then the realization comes: My mother was my home. My mother is dead. And the man who killed her is wearing a tuxedo and an expensive watch and going to parties. The man who killed her is at this party.
“Where’s my grandpa? I need to talk to my grandpa.”
“He’s busy, Grace. Come on.”
We make it outside and Noah says something to one of the uniformed men. The car with US flags is coming toward us. Noah is leading me to the door.
“You’re going to be okay, Grace,” Noah tells me. “You probably just ate something funny or …”
I climb into the car, but before Noah can join me, I slam the door and tell the driver, “Go! Just go.”
T he car is not on fire.
I know this like I know my name. My age. My social security number, and that I have brown eyes. I am certain of these facts, and yet I forget them. The black leather interior fades away. The divider between the driver and me is up, and I’m alone in the strange red glow that is coming off the instruments in the backseat. I blink harder and harder, and I know that I’m not crying. My eyes are just trying to wash away the smoke that isn’t there.
I bang my head back and slam my hands over my ears, but still I hear the cries.
“Grace, honey! No!”
“No.” I toss.
“No!” I yell.
“Grace,” my mother’s voice comes again. “Honey, run!”
“No. No. No.”
The limo’s windows are black, like mirrors in the night, but I can see through them into the small shop my mother ran back in America. Rows and rows of antiques and first-edition novels. Dusty and cramped.
A tinderbox .
That was the word the fire marshal had used.
So much old, dry wood. So many flammable things.
She never stood a chance. Not after the second-story balcony collapsed. Not once the fire moved into the walls.
“Grace, run!”
“No!” I yell.
I can hear the glass cracking. I can feel my fists begin to bleed. Oxygen crashes through the broken window and the fire booms, knocking me to the ground,
It was an accident.
There was no Scarred Man.
You have no idea what you really saw.
But I do know. I know what, and I know who, and I know that I was right that night in the Iranian embassy.
The Scarred Man is in Adria. I’ve finally found him. But I don’t dare let him find me.
“Grace, your dress is ripped,” Noah says. He has been here for a long time, I realize. Talking to me. Trying to tease me into dancing or eating. But he’s not teasing anymore. “Grace, what happened to your dress?” Then he rethinks, asks a better question. “Grace, what happened to you?”
“I … I …”
“Grace, look at me!” Panic is seeping into Noah’s voice. I want to tell him that it’s going to be okay — that I’m going to be okay. But I can’t lie to Noah. Not even when I know it’s what he wants to hear.
“Ms. Chancellor,” Noah says, calling her over.
“Well, hello there, you two,” Ms. Chancellor says. “Don’t you look handsome, Noah? You make a very striking pair.”
There’s a twinkle in her eyes, and I know what she’s thinking. She’s playing matchmaker. She’s practically naming our children, taking credit for Noah and the most excellent influence he has been upon me.
“I was just telling the ambassador of France all about you, Grace. Her niece is visiting next month and I told her that you and I would love to —”
But then Ms. Chancellor looks at me. She must see the panic in my eyes, the way all the color has drained from my face. I’m sure I no longer share the rosy hue of my pink gown. I must be the color of paper.
“Grace, are you okay?”
I try to speak, but the words don’t come.
“Noah, take her home,” Ms. Chancellor commands, but Noah is one step ahead of her. He already has my arm and is guiding me to the door.
“I need to go home,” I mutter.
“I know,” Noah says. “Come on. I’ll take you back to the embassy.”
“No! I need to go home,” I say, but then the realization comes: My mother was my home. My mother is dead. And the man who killed her is wearing a tuxedo and an expensive watch and going to parties. The man who killed her is at this party.
“Where’s my grandpa? I need to talk to my grandpa.”
“He’s busy, Grace. Come on.”
We make it outside and Noah says something to one of the uniformed men. The car with US flags is coming toward us. Noah is leading me to the door.
“You’re going to be okay, Grace,” Noah tells me. “You probably just ate something funny or …”
I climb into the car, but before Noah can join me, I slam the door and tell the driver, “Go! Just go.”
T he car is not on fire.
I know this like I know my name. My age. My social security number, and that I have brown eyes. I am certain of these facts, and yet I forget them. The black leather interior fades away. The divider between the driver and me is up, and I’m alone in the strange red glow that is coming off the instruments in the backseat. I blink harder and harder, and I know that I’m not crying. My eyes are just trying to wash away the smoke that isn’t there.
I bang my head back and slam my hands over my ears, but still I hear the cries.
“Grace, honey! No!”
“No.” I toss.
“No!” I yell.
“Grace,” my mother’s voice comes again. “Honey, run!”
“No. No. No.”
The limo’s windows are black, like mirrors in the night, but I can see through them into the small shop my mother ran back in America. Rows and rows of antiques and first-edition novels. Dusty and cramped.
A tinderbox .
That was the word the fire marshal had used.
So much old, dry wood. So many flammable things.
She never stood a chance. Not after the second-story balcony collapsed. Not once the fire moved into the walls.
“Grace, run!”
“No!” I yell.
I can hear the glass cracking. I can feel my fists begin to bleed. Oxygen crashes through the broken window and the fire booms, knocking me to the ground,
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