When the path branches again, I follow the sound until it stops. It must come and go, off and on, I realize. It’s probably an air-conditioning unit, something that only runs part of the time. But I heard it. I really did. I don’t think about what Noah said — I don’t wonder if my mixed-up mind has imagined the whole thing. Not when I turn my flashlight on and the beam flashes across the ladder. Not when I look up and clearly see the trapdoor that lies just over my head.

I may be wrong, I tell myself. This could be the South Korean embassy all over again. I don’t know for certain that I’ve found my way back to the place where the Scarred Man had his meeting. There’s no telling what might be waiting for me on the other side of that trapdoor.

And yet, relief surges inside me, followed by an emotion I can’t bring myself to name. And, as I climb, there is one thought pounding in my head: I wish I could tell Noah.

As soon as my fingers touch the carpet, I know that I’ve found the right building. There’s the same stiff, scratchy feel beneath my fingers, the same dim lights overhead. I have found the Scarred Man’s meeting place, but I still don’t know where I am.

Slowly, I stand and close the trapdoor. The carpet is in squares, and the door drops neatly into place like a piece of a puzzle. Even in the glow of my flashlight, I can barely make out the cracks.

I turn off my flashlight and put it in my pocket, then creep quietly down the hall. Again, there are no signs on the walls. No books. No clocks or posters or clues of any kind.

As I ease around the corner, my hands start to shake. My heart starts to pound. And that’s when I realize there are footsteps on the stairs. Someone is coming. I can’t be found here. I can’t be dragged back to my grandfather with no good excuse for how I ended up inside another building where I’m not supposed to be.

I’m turning, starting to run, when I hear, “Grace?”

I know the voice, and that’s what scares me. I’d give anything for it to be a stranger, but it’s not.

“Grace, sweetheart.” Ms. Chancellor flips a switch, and instantly the basement is flooded with light. “What are you doing down here?”

“Exploring,” I tell her as the fluorescent bulbs buzz and hum, coming to life.

“Oh, well, it’s not the prettiest part of the embassy, but I suppose it does have a degree of mystery.”

She makes a flourish with her hands and opens the door to the room where the Scarred Man had been. She flips on another light, and I see rows and rows of dusty shelves. There are books and old typewriters, a radio, and at least a dozen American flags, all packed neatly away and standing at attention.

It’s maybe the most harmless room ever, and yet my mind is running a million miles an hour and I cannot let her see.

I cannot let her know.

“What are you up to?” I say, my voice light.

“Your grandfather and I are going to watch a movie later, but we only have it on — aha!”

She pulls an old projector off one of the high shelves. It’s ancient, and dust cascades down onto her perfect suit. No one has used it in ages, and part of me thinks that it won’t even work. But she’s so proud of herself that I don’t say anything.

“You should join us,” Ms. Chancellor tells me. “Roman Holiday. It’s about a princess on the run in Rome, and Gregory Peck plays an American journalist who — oh, I don’t want to spoil it. Please come watch it with us.”

“Okay,” I somehow mutter. “Maybe.”

“I’m going to hold you to that,” she says with a wink. Then she turns and starts back toward the stairs — her high heels clicking in the distance — leaving me exactly where I am supposed to be.

I am inside the United States embassy.

And so was the man who killed my mother when he found out that he was supposed to kill again.

Technically, I’m already home. I only have to go upstairs. Close the door. Lie down on my pink canopy bed and be a normal girl. But whatever chance I had for normal disappeared three years ago. It went up in smoke.

So I creep back into the tunnels. This time I do not run away. There is no pounding in my head or in my veins. It is like I am moving in slow motion. I feel like I’m walking in a dream.

Once, I stop and lean against the rough walls and try to catch my breath. I worry I might get lost again. I worry about so many things — all the time. But I keep walking. And when I finally climb out into the street, I start to run, faster and faster down the hill.

The Scarred Man was meeting someone in the US embassy. That is where his accomplice lives — or at least works. For days I’ve been worrying about where the Scarred Man had been — who his accomplices might be.

Now I’m not worried.

Now I’m terrified.

So I run faster, arms pumping at my side. Is Noah spending the night in Israel or Brazil? Brazil, I think. No. Israel. I stop mid-stride. I turn in a flash.

I’m supposed to be running in the opposite direction, but my legs no longer work. My arms can’t move. All I can do is stand in the deserted street. And stare.

“You,” I say.

The Scarred Man smiles. “Hello, Grace.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

I will not scream. I will not run. I will not lose control. Because, right now, my control might be all I have.

The man is coming closer, the slow, easy strides of someone out for an evening stroll. His hands are in his pockets. When he nears me, his smile widens.

“I’m Dominic,” the man says. “Forgive me if I scared you. I know your grandfather, so I thought I’d say hello. I shouldn’t have —”

“I’m not scared,” I blurt.

But he looks like maybe he knows better. “I’m an old friend of your mother’s.”

The Scarred Man is here. The Scarred Man is looking at me, smiling at me, and talking about my mother.

The flashlight in my sweater pocket is heavy and solid, not one of those cheap plastic numbers. It’s hardly a weapon, but it’s better than nothing. My fingers go around it, squeezing tight. I move my feet a little, staggering my stance, balancing my weight.

“You don’t know me, Grace.”

There’s a seriousness to his words. The pretense is gone. I know what he’s really saying when I tell him, “I know enough.”

He steps closer. I step back.

“And you’ve never been wrong about anything? Ever?”