See How They Run (Embassy Row 2)

“You don’t get it, Alexei. I’m mad because you came back.” I move away, just a step. Just enough to breathe. It’s hard to read the look that fills Alexei’s eyes. He has always been a little stoic, a little cool. He has a natural poker face, my father used to say. And now, with his black eye and bloody knuckles, it is hard to see past what happened last night. It’s almost impossible to reach the boy behind the bruises.

Wordlessly, we keep walking, through the gates and toward the beach that looks and feels so different in the light of day.

“Grace, I —”

I don’t know what he’s about to say, because then the wind picks up, carrying the clear salty air and the sounds of shouting.

“Over here!” someone yells in Adrian.

There are more cries and shouts, screams that are the same in every possible language. Grief and terror have a tongue of their own.

I don’t know what I’m going to see as I turn and look down the beach. There are men in the surf, swimming out against the tide. An older couple holds two children, pulling them away from the water and the cries.

Then someone yells for an ambulance and I see the thing that is floating in the water. It looks like a log or a tangle of seaweed that the tide keeps pushing toward the shore. But the men are swimming toward it. The tension builds and grows. And when they’ve hauled it to the beach, more cries go up as the crowd descends.

And then the yelling stops.

The silence is so much worse. There is nothing but the sound of the waves and the seagulls and the whispers of the people who gather on the shore.

Whispers that I can’t un-hear.

Body.

Police.

And then the sentence that changes everything.

This says his name is Blakely.

It feels like maybe someone else is screaming. I hear the bloodcurdling yell that causes people to turn. Panic is contagious; I learned that long ago. And the people in the crowd don’t know what to make of me, the wide-eyed girl who is screaming and clawing, fighting her way toward the body.

“Jamie!” I’m yelling. “Jamie, Jamie, Jamie, wake up. Wake —”

“Grace, wait.”

Strong arms are around me, pulling me back. Still, I fight against the bond. My arms are squeezed tightly to my sides as I try to claw and flail and kick.

“Jamie!” I yell again, but my voice is muffled as Alexei turns me, presses my cheek against his chest.

“I have to go help Jamie!”

“Shh. It’s okay.” Alexei takes my face in his hands and forces me to look into his eyes.

“No, I —”

“Grace, it’s okay! Jamie’s at the embassy, remember. Jamie’s at the embassy. Jamie is okay.”

Finally, I exhale.

“Jamie’s at the embassy. Jamie is okay.” I say it like a mantra, the words bringing calm.

But my blood still pounds inside me. The crowd has parted now, no one wanting to stand in the way of the crazy girl. They look at me like I’m something else to fear. The bystanders slowly fade away, a blurry, distant reminder that lingers on the outside of my vision as I stare at the boy in the surf. His West Point–issued jacket. His too-short hair and broad shoulders.

“That’s Spence,” I say, pulling away from Alexei, who surges to grab me again. “I’ve got to get him. I have to help him.”

“You can’t help him,” Alexei says, taking my face tightly in his hands. He’s not going to let me turn my head. He’s going to make me keep staring into his blue eyes — eyes that are bruised and swollen, yes. But eyes that are alive. I have seen too much death already in my short life, and I have no doubt Alexei knows it.

“I have to help him,” I say, numb.

But Alexei shakes his head.

“He’s Jamie’s friend,” I say, as if that changes things.

Alexei pulls me against him.

“He’s dead, Gracie. He’s dead.”

The embassy looks the same when we reach it — there’s no black wreath upon the door; the flag isn’t flying at half-mast. No, the US embassy isn’t mourning. Yet. I have to remember that Spence’s body is still lying on the beach, waiting to be identified. Tests will need to be run, calls will need to be made. It might be hours until someone tells my grandfather that a cadet from West Point has washed up on Adria’s shores. Until someone tells Jamie.

Someone is going to have to tell Jamie.

“Grace.” Alexei’s hand is on my arm, and that’s when I realize I’ve started to tremble. “It is okay.”

“No.” I’m shaking my head. “I thought it was him. I thought …”

“Jamie is safe.”

“I know. It’s just …”

The marine holds open the gate, waiting for me to make up my mind about whether or not I’m coming in, and I can’t help myself … I hesitate. I’m not used to being the bearer of bad news. Usually, I am the bad news. A part of me wants to keep walking, past the gates to Russia and China, all the way to Iran and the hills that climb high above the city. I look at the embassy that stands before me, currently at rest. Like a pebble thrown into a very still pond, I know the ripples are coming. A part of me fears they will make waves.

Spence is dead. Spence is dead. Spence is dead.

I know the words are true, and yet they have no meaning.

It’s not even ten a.m. yet. Twelve hours ago he was alive. Alive and standing on a beach. Talking. Fighting. Kissing.