When the Scarred Man crosses the street, he comes within five feet of us, almost close enough for me to reach out and touch the scar on his left cheek. For a second, I’m tempted to do just that — to make sure it’s real. It was one thing to look at it through a small crack in a door. But I’m standing on a sunny street now. I can hear birds singing and the bells of the trolleys in the distance. Everything around me is alive. But as soon as I see that scar, I think of death.

“Grace,” Noah says very, very slowly, “is he still behind me?”

“Yes … no. He’s moving now.”

“Okay.” Noah draws a deep breath. “Okay. Good. Now we can go get someone or do something or —”

“There is no one to get, Noah.”

“But someone has to do something!”

“I know.” I reach into the bag I have slung across my body and pull out the walkie-talkies I got for my twelfth birthday. “That’s why we’re going to follow him.”

Noah and I stick together, trying to mimic the Scarred Man’s pace. It’s erratic, though, like he knows someone might be back here. And then I realize that, yeah, he probably does.

“Just so I’m clear,” Noah says, his voice lower than it needs to be, “this man is the head of security for the leader of a small but prominent European country.”

I might glare at him a little because Noah pulls back, wounded.

He throws up his hands. “What? I just thought someone should point out the obvious.”

“Okay,” I tell him as the Scarred Man turns onto another busy street. Noah and I wait a beat then follow him up the hill.

“The obvious,” Noah goes on, a little out of breath, “being that he is probably some super secret assassin or something. And I’m not as tough as I look.”

“That’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m way tougher than you look.”

Noah levels me with a glare. He’s not teasing as he says, “Don’t you think we might be out of our league?”

I can’t tell him that he’s wrong. Or that he’s right. I can’t tell Noah any of the things he probably has a right to know, mainly because I don’t want to lose him yet. I don’t want to skip ahead to the part where he pities or distrusts or even hates me. I like that he is different from everyone else I’ve ever known in that one essential way.

We’re passing by an antique store and for a moment I stop. Frozen.

I see my mother’s face in the glass, hear a little girl ask, “Momma, do you like that locket?”

But my mother doesn’t answer. She will never answer me again.

And that is why I turn to Noah and say, “We’re the only league there is. Right now, you and I are all we’ve got.” I mean it. I mean it so much more than he will ever know.

When the Scarred Man turns down another street, I start to follow. But this street isn’t busy like the last. It’s narrow — not much more than an alley lined with apartments and houses. Quiet and sleepy, this is the kind of street where a trained operative would know if someone were on his tail.

“We’ve got to split up.”

“What? No! I’m not leaving you.”

“That’s why I brought the walkie-talkies,” I tell him, already stepping into the street.

“Grace, wait!”

“Just go to the end of the block. Wait there. I’ll tell you where to meet up and then you can take my place and we can tag-team it — like that.”

“Grace —”

“I’ll be okay, Noah,” I tell him. I press the button on the walkie-talkie. “See?” My voice echoes in stereo. Scratchy and haunting. “I’m okay.”

Part of having the world think you’re crazy means you always have to remind yourself of the truth. Always. Especially if you don’t necessarily like what you have to say. And right now I’m alone on a street so narrow only the noonday sun can shine upon it. I’m walking thirty yards behind the man who killed my mother, pecking at my phone, trying to act like a normal, harmless, well-adjusted teenage girl.

But I am none of those things.

And I am anything but okay.

“Hey, Grace,” someone says an hour later. I jump, startled. Did she just appear out of thin air? Or was I so hungry and tired and focused on my target that she has been following me for thirty minutes and I didn’t even notice?

In any case, I try to sound as calm as possible when I say, “Hi, Rosie.”

The tiny girl eases closer. “Whatcha doing?”

“Sorry, Rosie, but I’m a little busy at the moment.”

I start to ease around the corner, needing to be ready if and when Noah tells me it’s my turn. But mostly I just need Rosie to get away from me. It’s bad enough I’ve already corrupted Noah; I can’t stand the thought of putting Rosie in danger, too.

But Rosie is holding back a laugh. “Oh, I can tell.”

I’m just about to ask what she thinks is so funny when Noah’s voice comes ringing out of the walkie-talkie I’m holding behind my back. “Grace, we have movement on the south side of the building. I repeat, we have movement, and it’s coming your way.”

I look at Rosie. Rosie looks at me.

“Grace,” Noah says after a moment. “Grace, do you read —”

“Go ahead,” Rosie tells me. “Answer him.”

Slowly, I hold up my walkie-talkie. “I read you.” I can’t take my eyes off of the small girl with the very self-satisfied smile.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Rosie says.

“Sorry, Rosie. I wish I could stay, but I —”

“But you’re trying to follow one of the most security-conscious, not to mention paranoid, men in Adria,” Rosie tells me. “And you’re doing it wrong.”

For a moment I just stare at her. I don’t have a clue what to say. All I know is that I will not tell her that she’s crazy — that she’s making it all up. I will never use that as a weapon against another human being as long as I live.

Rosie looks at my slack jaw, my dazed expression. “I’ve spent my whole life tailing after people who think they’re more interesting than me, Grace.”

“But —”

“I’m not an idiot! I’m just twelve. I’m a twelve-year-old girl and neither of those facts are my fault.”