“Where?” I practically shout.

“Down there,” Rosie says.

He’s so close to the balcony that I actually have to lean against the rail to see him. He is almost beneath me, but I realize he is actually moving away from the president.

I see Alexei’s father waiting in the wings, and when he spots me, a disappointed look crosses his face. But I don’t have time to worry about him and why he hates me, about all the ways I’m not good enough to be friends with the boy next door.

The US president is on the stage. I hear his voice echoing in the ballroom. “It is so good to be here tonight, with our friends and our neighbors.” He raises a glass in the direction of the Russian president, who nods solemnly in agreement.

The tension between the two men is palpable. I can almost feel the tightrope that our two nations have to walk in this moment. And I think of the look on the Russian ambassador’s face as I stood in his office, a teenage girl apologizing for accidentally hitting him in a garden.

What kind of chaos would rain down if something worse were to happen — if something worse were to happen to the president of Russia? If that something were to happen here? Now?

It would mean bloodshed.

It might mean war.

I think about my first day here, about the sight of the embassies all standing in a row like dominoes, and I know that something — or someone — is getting ready to knock them down.

The Russian president is standing with Alexei’s father, and the Scarred Man is approaching them quickly. As he walks, I notice something in his hand. Something black and shiny and …

He’s almost there.

It’s almost too late.

“No!” someone yells, and it takes me a moment to realize that it’s me.

I don’t take the time to think about anything else. Not the number of people in the room or the height of the balcony. I’m not thinking about my pretty party dress or the look on my grandfather’s face as the whole room seems to freeze.

The president is shaking my grandfather’s hand. But everyone turns at the sound of my voice. Everyone is watching as I hurl myself over the railing. Even the US Secret Service can do nothing but watch as I fly through the air and crash onto the Scarred Man’s back.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

It was a cell phone in the Scarred Man’s hand, they tell me. My grandfather is meeting with the prime minister now, apologizing and explaining the situation. Telling him about me and all of my issues.

The US president made some kind of joke from the stage — always good on his feet — even as the Secret Service swarmed around me. The Russian president and Alexei’s father were quietly ushered aside and offered some kind of explanation.

No harm done, everyone keeps saying, but I know that’s not true. At the very least, it’s an embarrassment. I am an embarrassment. Some things never do change.

“Grace,” a familiar voice breaks through the darkness, but I don’t dare open my eyes. “Grace, I know you’re awake.”

Ms. Chancellor won’t let me go to my room. She insists I stay in her office, sitting in her least comfortable chair, an utterly polite kind of torture. One of the Secret Service agents sits behind me. I can feel the man’s eyes boring into the back of my head. I wonder if anyone can ever drill deep enough to cut all the crazy out.

Probably not, the tone of Ms. Chancellor’s voice tells me.

“What time is it?” I ask as, groggily, I open my eyes.

There’s an ice pack on my knees. I have bandages on both elbows. I’m not a pretty sight, I know. But I can’t bring myself to care.

“After midnight.” Ms. Chancellor brings both of her hands together, gripping them gently as she leans back against her desk. It’s her diplomacy stance. I can tell she’s trying to muster all of her kindness. It’s hard, though.

“Agent Gregory” — Ms. Chancellor looks back at the man in the dark suit — “I believe we will no longer be requiring your assistance.”

The man rises and buttons his dark suit coat. “Ma’am,” he tells her, then disappears out the door without another word.

For a second, I am glad to be out of his glare. Then I realize I’m now alone with Ms. Chancellor and I’d give anything for him to come back.

“He’s going to kill again,” I start right in.

“Grace —” Ms. Chancellor tries, but I talk on.

“He was here!” I shout. “He was in the US embassy last week — meeting someone. I followed him, and I heard him say that he is going to kill again.”

“You followed him?” Ms. Chancellor asks, but it’s not a question. It’s a threat. “I thought your grandfather and I were very clear that you were to stay away from him!”

“You and my grandfather were wrong.”

“Oh, Grace.” Ms. Chancellor shakes her head slowly. “What have you done?”

When she starts around her desk, I bolt out of the uncomfortable chair.

“What have I done? He’s the one going around the city meeting with shady men and planning assassinations!”

“He is the prime minister’s head of security, Grace. Do you know what that means?”

“Yeah. It means people like you will always believe him over people like me.”

I hold my breath, waiting for Ms. Chancellor’s witty retort, but she only looks sadder. When she speaks again, her voice is soft and kind and tender.

“Grace, we have no reason to believe that he would ever do anything like that.”

“He killed my mother!” I’m shaking now, yelling so loudly that I know people can hear, and I don’t care. I want the world to hear — to know. I am tired of secrets. “He killed her!”

Ms. Chancellor gently pulls a file from her desk — almost like she’s afraid of what it holds. It isn’t just a file, I can tell. It is her weapon of last resort.

“Dominic did not kill your mother, Grace.”

“You don’t know that,” I say.

“Yes.” She opens the file and drops it on the desk. “I do.”

For a second, I’m not sure what I’m seeing. It’s just a newspaper. I pick it up and read the headline in Adrian, something about a labor strike with the national train service. There’s a photo of the prime minister shaking hands with a man I’ve never seen before. It’s the kind of picture that’s in every paper in the world every day.