“I can find him,” Megan says matter-of-factly. Then she looks at me. “If that’s okay with you.”

But all I can think is Megan wanted to be friends with me? I think back on all the times the two of us were thrust together: companions of last resort. I always thought she resented having to come play with me. And as a result, I hated having to play with her. But maybe we were both wrong. Maybe we were just two proud and stubborn little girls who were just too proud and stubborn.

“I know you just got back from your run and you’re all … sweaty,” Noah says. I elbow him in the gut. Hard. “But we really need your help.”

Megan crosses her arms. “So what’s it going to be, Grace? I can help you. Or you can stand here, being too bullheaded to let me. It’s your call.”

I’ve known Megan almost all my life. This is the first time I’ve ever liked her.

“Whose office is this?” Noah asks three minutes later.

“Someone who is currently having tea with a good friend in Israel,” I tell him.

“Ms. Chancellor?” Noah sounds like he might hyperventilate, so I hurry up and close the door. “We just broke into the office of … Okay. Not going to panic.”

“Yeah. That’s what not panicking looks like,” Megan says, pushing past him and taking a seat in Ms. Chancellor’s plush leather chair. As soon as she touches the computer, the US State Department seal pops up on the screen along with a prompt for a username and password.

“She’s got to keep her password written down around here somewhere,” I say, looking at the meticulous desk.

“Ms. Chancellor? I don’t think so. Besides, I don’t need it.” Megan’s sparkly pink fingernails are a blur as they fly across the keys. Sixty seconds later she announces, “We’re in.”

We’re looking at a new screen now. It’s nothing like I’ve ever seen before. This isn’t the official US Foreign Service desktop. This is something different. It’s like we’re inside the computer’s brain, and Megan is its master.

She spins on us, watches our expressions change.

“Don’t let the glitter fool you.” She wiggles her shiny nails in the air, then taps her temple. “I’m up here.”

“I see that,” I say as Noah whispers a very soft, “I love you.”

“What?” Megan asks.

“Nothing,” Noah says, then pulls back and walks to the other side of the desk.

“Now, what is so urgent?” Megan asks me.

But I’m still flummoxed by what I’ve seen.

“How did you …?”

“My mom is the chief operations officer for the CIA stationed in Europe,” she tells me. “I pay attention.”

“I see that,” I say.

“Now what do you need?”

“I need to know everyone who was at the party at the palace last night.”

“Is that all?” Megan asks, like the least we could do is try to challenge her.

A few minutes later she’s hitting PRINT, and soon I’m looking down at a list of names. Hundreds of them. My hands start to tremble as I realize that one of them must belong to the man who killed my mother.

I can feel Noah looking over my shoulder.

“Is there any way to cross-reference that list with embassy ID photos or something?” he asks. “We don’t have a name. Just a face.”

“You need pictures?” Megan seems a little upset that we didn’t mention that in the first place.

“Yes. Why? Is that a problem?” I ask.

“No. It just means we’re looking in the wrong place.”

Megan goes to work, and three minutes later I’m looking at a screen filled with nothing but people in formal attire walking slowly toward a camera, yellow dots covering their faces.

“What is that?” Noah asks.

“That is the palace’s facial-recognition program chronicling everyone who entered the gala last night.” Megan leans back and crosses her arms. She knows that we’re impressed. She is impressed. And I have to admit she has the right to be.

“Can we get a copy of that — without anyone knowing we have it?”

“I already emailed it to a dummy account.” She scribbles out a username and password. “Anything else?”

“Marry me?” Noah whispers.

If Megan hears him she ignores the question. She just keeps looking at me as I shake my head slowly back and forth.

“That was …” Words fail me. I don’t like to owe favors and I hate to be caught off guard. Thirty minutes with Megan and I am both. Embassy Row is turning into a far more dangerous place than I ever thought it could be.

Walking out of the embassy, Noah’s long, lanky legs carry him up ahead. For a moment, Megan and I are alone.

“Well, thanks,” I say, and reach for the scrap of paper, but Megan tugs it away, just out of my reach.

“So are you going to tell me now?” she asks.

“Tell you what?”

Megan spins on me, stopping and blocking my way.

“I’m sorry about your mom, Grace. And I’m sorry about what you’ve been through. But this” — she holds up the paper, accentuating the point — “whatever this is. It won’t bring her back.”

“It’s not —”

“You don’t want to tell me what’s going on? Fine. But don’t lie to me. Okay?”

“Okay,” I say.

She hands me the paper. “And, Grace? Whatever this is … be careful.”

Megan pushes through the gates and starts down the sidewalk. I feel as much as see when Noah comes to stand beside me.

“You ready?” he asks.

I smile and try to convince myself the answer is yes.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Brazil is totally dark when we get there. Noah leads me through a side gate to a small door at the back of the building. It’s smaller than a lot of the other embassies, but it’s always been one of my favorites. So many of the buildings on Embassy Row are palaces — fortresses. The Brazilian embassy always looked, from the outside at least, like a home.

Noah knocks on the door. When no one answers he uses a key and lets himself in. As far as I know there are no keys to the US embassy. Just a whole lot of marines with semiautomatic sidearms.

“Come on,” Noah tells me. “We can work upstairs.”