“I see a girl who witnessed a horrendous thing and never let herself deal with the trauma. I see a girl who, upon seeing a man who has a scar — any man with a scar — jumps to a terrible conclusion. But, most of all, Grace” — his voice is heavy and tired — “I see a girl who has said all of this before.”

“I know how it looks. I know —”

“You don’t know anything!” My grandfather’s voice is so strong, so loud, that I half expect the windows to shake, the security alarms to go off. “My Caroline is dead!”

It is the first time in three years that I have heard him say my mother’s name. It is the first time I have ever seen him cry.

“She died in a terrible, tragic accident. And if I thought … If I thought that there was someone who needed to be punished for that, I would do it.” His voice grows low, gravelly. Desperate. “So help me, I would do it myself.”

Grandpa is staring at me now. And for the first time I can’t fight the feeling that a part of him hates a part of me. For bringing this memory to his door. For looking a little too much like her. For taking his daughter away from him all over again.

“Dominic is a good man, Grace,” Grandpa says, finally tearing his gaze away from me. “The best of men. I would trust him with my life. I would have trusted him with my daughter’s life.” He waves me and my crazy, irrational worries away. “He would not have hurt her.”

I feel embarrassed and indignant. Both. But I don’t argue anymore. “Why didn’t you tell me that last night?”

“I did.” Grandpa takes a sip, then shrugs. “Or I tried to. Don’t bother Dominic, Grace. Leave the poor man alone. Stay out of the affairs of the prime minister. These are busy people in troubling times. None of us need more worries or stress or wild, unsubstantiated theories circling around.”

I have to laugh a little. “You really don’t trust me, do you?”

Grandpa studies me. “Of course I do.”

But the words are too slow, the eye contact too fleeting.

“For a good diplomat, you really are a very bad liar,” I tell him, then leave before he can say another word.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“Noah,” I say, shaking his shoulder. “Noah, wake up.”

He rolls over, mutters something in Hebrew that I can’t translate but is probably the Israeli equivalent of “Ten more minutes, Mom.”

I shake his shoulder again and he swats me away, like a fly.

So I slap him.

“Grace!” Noah shouts. Then he seems to remember where we are and lowers his voice. “What are you doing in my room?”

“So you can break into my room, but I can’t pay you a call?”

“I was … I had … I mean …”

“Relax,” I tell him. “Lila let me in. She’s super cheerful in the mornings.”

“Yes.” Noah drags his groggy body out of bed, swings his feet onto the floor. “You know, keep this up and I’m going to get a reputation.”

“You’re wearing Spider-Man pajamas. I think your reputation can handle it. Now come on.” I toss a pair of jeans in his direction. “Get dressed. We’ve got to go.”

“Go where?”

But I just step into the hall and wait for him to change.

“Grace …”

The breeze is cool, but Noah’s voice is colder. We stand close enough to touch on a sidewalk, staring across a busy street at a building that is three stories tall. A black wrought-iron fence and two guards are positioned between the front door and the sidewalk opposite us.

It’s just an ordinary street in a lot of ways. Buses pass. Café owners are busy setting up their sidewalk tables. I can smell the day’s fresh bread. It is a perfectly lovely morning in every way but one.

And that is why I stand, not moving. Now is not the time to be careless or rash or … Grace-like. Now is the time to make the exact right move at the exact right time. Now is when I have to be patient.

“Grace,” Noah tries again. “That’s the prime minister’s residence.”

I take a sip of coffee and never let my gaze leave the door. “I know.”

“And I’m pretty sure the prime minister doesn’t have a scar on his face.”

“I know.”

A bus passes, temporarily blocking my line of sight. It’s all I can do not to panic until my view is restored. But a split second later I’m looking back at the same tall, black iron fence. The same empty sidewalk. The same polished gold door knocker. I can’t help myself. Part of me just wants to cross the street and ring the bell — tell the prime minister that he is being guarded by a killer.

But then another, scarier, thought occurs to me: Maybe he already knows.

“So I’m pretty sure that the prime minister could not have killed your mother,” Noah finishes, proud of himself.

“I know the prime minister didn’t do it,” I tell him.

Noah actually sighs with relief.

“Good. Because for a second there, I thought you were going to say —”

A streetcar is coming, its bell ringing in the air. When it passes, I look across the street, stare at the man exiting the prime minister’s residence, and say, “He did.”

I know the way people look at you when they think that you’re crazy. Call it a byproduct of being me. So I know that Noah hadn’t thought I was making it up — that my mind was playing tricks on me or it was just the trauma speaking. But he still sounds surprised when he mutters, “It’s him.”

Surprised and a little terrified.

Looking for a killer from the safety of your bedroom inside a foreign embassy is one thing. It’s quite another when the killer is about to cross the street and head in your direction.

“It’s really him,” Noah says again.

“Yes,” I say. “It is.”

“We have to do something,” Noah says. “We’ve got to go tell your grandfather or … I don’t know.”

“I did tell my grandfather. He said that the Scarred Man’s name is Dominic Novak. He is the head of security for the prime minister and a generally upright dude. He says that I am crazy.”

“He didn’t say that, Grace,” Noah guesses.

Noah is sweet and nice, a little naïve. I have to shake my head as I tell him, “They always say that.”