Megan fast-forwards the recording, but Dominic barely moves. Eventually, though, the images change. I recognize the streets and the light, but it’s like looking at a stranger. I barely know the girl with the blond hair blowing all around her as she strolls down Embassy Row.

“And now he’s obsessed with you,” Megan says, studying me, expecting this to change things. She doesn’t know what I know: that the Scarred Man didn’t have that scar the night my mother died.

Nothing Megan says can change that fact.

“I didn’t see him that night.” I shake my head and push away. “I didn’t see anyone. It was an accident,” I say again very, very slowly, trying the party line on for size.

But it doesn’t quite fit, so I rock harder.

“Okay.” Noah eases closer. He places a firm, strong hand over mine. For the first time, I am still. “Then let’s —”

“You should go,” I tell them, hopefully for the last time.

“But —”

“Really.” I walk toward the door. “It’s time for you to leave.”

Megan looks like she wants to argue but she can’t find the words. Noah just looks at me — for the first time, ironically — as if I am a stranger.

“This isn’t you, Grace,” Noah tells me.

“No. This is exactly me,” I say, and push him out of my room.

“Come on!” Noah bangs on the door once I’ve closed it behind them. “At least come watch the fireworks! It’ll be fun.” When I don’t answer he bangs again. “I thought you were a fighter! I thought you were tougher than I look!”

Noah’s voice is too loud — too close. I put my hands over my ears, but that can’t keep the words out of my mind. It doesn’t silence the screaming.

“Grace, no!” my mother yells.

“Grace, stop!”

When the cry rises in my throat, I don’t try to hold it in. There is too much bile rising up within me. I grab the closest thing I can find — one of the old paperback books on my mother’s dresser. It hasn’t moved in years, and when I pick it up, it leaves a perfect outline of dust behind.

I can’t help myself. I hurl the book at the wall. It lands with a smack, pages splayed and bent. And, instantly, I hate my carelessness. My rage.

The book crashes to the floor as a photograph flutters to the ground, landing at my feet. It’s just a snapshot, really. Something taken quickly to capture a moment. Something tucked inside my mother’s favorite novel and left there for twenty years.

I look down at the image of my mother standing on the wall, her arms thrown out. The sea is blue and beautiful behind her. Her hair blows across her face, but I can tell that she is smiling, laughing. She’s my age and there is a boy holding her hand. He’s smiling and laughing, too.

Now that I know what he looked like before the scar, I recognize him instantly.

“Dominic,” I say, then I reach for another book and hurl it against the wall as well. And then another.

And another.

And another.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

My mother’s paperbacks lay scattered around me. The contents of her medicine cabinet are strewn across the bathroom floor. Hurricane Grace has swept through my mother’s room, and I’m not finished.

The rocking comes faster now. My blood is pumping too hard, and I know I should get out of the room, go for a walk or a run. There are too many live nerve endings in my skin. I am about to catch fire.

But in this moment, I don’t want to stop it. I just want everything else to burn with me if I have to go.

I think about the file in Ms. Chancellor’s office — the one where she kept the Scarred Man’s picture and the newspaper clipping. I want to know what else she might have under lock and key. So I allow myself one more foolish act. I don’t even look back.

It’s easy enough to get there. I just put on clean clothes and brush my hair and my teeth. No one is going to bother the ambassador’s granddaughter on the last day of the G-20 summit. There are way too many other things to do.

When I reach Ms. Chancellor’s office, I pick the lock. The filing cabinet is easy to get open. Inside, I find lots and lots of diplomatic documents, staff forms, and personnel information. The embassy has entire rooms for filing. These are the things Ms. Chancellor holds most valuable or maybe needs most often. But it’s not just that. These are the things she doesn’t want anyone else to keep.

Quickly, I thumb through her personal notes and records. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but I know it the moment that I see it.

Caroline.

My mother’s name makes me stop. I’m perfectly still, not shaking or trembling. Even my breath slows down as I look at the carefully written word and pull the file from the drawer.

As always, Ms. Chancellor is thorough. She has a copy of my mother’s obituaries — the ones that ran in the States and here. There are cards of condolence from the president and the prime minister — even the king and queen.

I know what this immense file is supposed to say — supposed to mean. I am supposed to walk away from this knowing that my mother was adored and treasured and loved. I am supposed to feel like I am not alone in my grief, that my mother left me with dozens or hundreds of powerful people who want to make sure her only daughter will be fine.

But I am anything but fine, and everybody knows it.

Especially me.

When I reach the final piece of paper in the file, I almost miss it. It’s just plain copy paper, white on one side, and it sticks to the back of the file. I pull it away, stare down at the words Certificate of Death.

It is only a copy, but I’m not surprised that Ms. Chancellor has one — not in her incredibly thorough files in her incredibly tidy office. She would want all the information, the facts. She would keep this for my grandfather — proof that his daughter is really gone.

I know my mother is gone.

I don’t need to see proof.

And yet I cannot tear my eyes away from it.

I see my mother’s name. The date. The coroner’s signature scrawled across the bottom of the page.

And, finally, the words —

Cause of death: Gunshot wound to the chest.

The door must open and close. Time must pass, but I don’t sense it. I am frozen, not shaking, barely breathing. I close my eyes and hear the report of the shot, shake with the sound. Three years have passed, and still I can’t stop shaking. I’m thousands of miles away and the blowback has finally reached me.