But to me, there is only one fact that matters.
My grandfather is on that stage. The Russian president will be nearby. Whoever the Scarred Man’s target is, we are getting farther and farther away from them as well. And I am grateful for the distance. It might be the only way that I can keep them safe.
“Where are you taking me?”
His voice is cold. “Away.”
When we turn a corner, he drops me then points toward one of the tunnel entrances, and says, “In there. Hurry.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you!”
“Grace,” he snaps, holding me still, making me look him in the eye. “Stop fighting. Please. Just listen. Look. See?” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of papers. There’s a US passport with my picture, but somebody else’s name. Someone else’s address. A birth certificate. And a second passport, this one with his picture.
“Why do you have these?” I shout. “What are you doing?”
“Take them. Go! Head back to the embassy and wait for —”
“No! I’m not going to leave and let you kill someone. I’m not … Why do you have a passport with my picture on it?” I can feel my anger fading, confusion rising in its wake.
“We don’t have time for this, Grace.” When he reaches for me again, his jacket gapes open, revealing the gun in his holster. I’m not thinking now. I’m acting on instinct, driven by fear as I pull the gun from his holster and hold it toward him.
“Back off. Get away from me. I’ll do it!” I shout. My hands don’t shake. The gun feels light as air. My nerves are steady, even. “I will pull this trigger.”
The Scarred Man’s eyes are wide. It’s almost like he’s confused, but then his gaze falls to the ground and he whispers, “I know.”
It’s the way he says it — the look on his face. There is no rage, no guilt. Just pity and … love. He is remembering someone he loved.
“What aren’t you telling me?” I scream.
“You really don’t remember, do you?”
“Remember what?” I say.
The Scarred Man brings a finger to the jagged line that runs from his eye to his jaw. “The night that I got this.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
I struggle for words. “The night that you …”
I flash back to the photograph Ms. Chancellor showed me — the man who had no scar three days before my mother died. It doesn’t make sense, and yet something catches in my mind, like a sweater caught on a nail. I can feel my whole world beginning to unravel.
“Think, Grace,” he tells me, easing closer. “Think! They’ve spent years filling your head with lies. And maybe they were right to try to make you forget what happened that night. I know I wish I could. I wish that every day. But you can’t forget it, can you, Grace? And you can’t quite remember. Now the truth is like a tightrope that you can’t walk forever. Think! Think before it gets you killed.”
“Get back!” I tell him. “You can’t hurt me. I have the gun.”
“No, Grace.” He shakes his head slowly and reaches for my hands. My empty hands. He holds them up for me to see. “You don’t.”
I look down at my hands and then stupidly glance around at the ground. Where did the gun go? When did I lose it? I don’t know. So I cling to the only thing I know for certain — the only fact that will ever really matter.
“You killed my mother. You killed her. You —”
“I came to save her!” The Scarred Man’s voice cuts through the cool night air. “I was there. You’re right. You did see me. People did want her dead, but I would never kill your mother, Grace. She was the last person … I would have never killed her. So I came to get her, to take her away, to hide her. We were going to stage her death, and then —”
“You’re lying.”
“Your mother’s death was an accident,” he says softly, but he doesn’t know that they are the exact wrong words. Before I know it, my fists are pounding against his shoulders, glancing blows that do nothing to shake him. I can’t stop trembling.
“No!” I shout. “It was no accident. I saw her death certificate. She was shot!”
“Grace” — he grabs my arms and pulls me to his chest, holds me still and shakes his head very slowly — “it doesn’t have to be one or the other.”
And then his arms let go, and I’m stepping away, suddenly numb. Even the tears on my cheek seem to freeze.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.
“You do know, Grace.” He sounds so sad. “They tried to make you forget — to tell you you were seeing things, misremembering things. But you have always known.”
It’s too much. I can’t think. I can’t feel. I can’t do anything but tremble.
The Scarred Man is so close to me. Right here. Staring into my eyes. So I kick him as hard as I can. My shoe makes sharp contact with his shin. He doubles over in pain and I strike him in the eye with an elbow.
And then I start to run.
Fire streaks across the sky. There’s a sound like cannons booming as the night becomes a kaleidoscope of color and sound and fire.
There is so much fire.
I have to outrun the smoke. I have to get help. I have to —
I stop too quickly — realize too late — that I’ve run into something. Someone. Arms are around me. But the face that is staring into mine does not belong to the Scarred Man.
“Well, hello, Grace,” the man says. “Do you remember me? We met at the palace. I’m —”
“The prime minister,” I say. Or I think I say. How am I supposed to know what’s real? “Have you seen my grandfather?” I ask, then think about Ms. Chancellor, the person closest to him, and I know that he’s not safe. “I have to see my grandfather!”
“Grace, dear.” The prime minister looks at me, concern in his eyes. “Are you okay?”
“Yes!” I yell, even though I honestly feel like I am breaking.
I am breaking free.
There are barricades up ahead. Signs shout Caution! Explosives! in three different languages. I have no idea how far I’ve run, but there is no one around. Long lines of cables stretch across the cobblestones. I see stacks of equipment. Scaffolding reaches toward the sky. The yells of the crowd still echo in the distance, but I am a far cry from safety.