I want to yell that Alexei’s not a killer. I want to storm into the room and tell everyone how he pulled me from the mob last night — that Alexei is a good guy. He saved me.

“We have to help him,” I tell Ms. Chancellor. “You know as well as I do that Alexei didn’t do this, so we have to do something.”

The people in that room with my grandfather are nothing compared to the women in the Society with Ms. Chancellor.

“If they can make a gunshot disappear they can fix this,” I tell her, but Ms. Chancellor gives me a slight shake of her head.

For the benefit of anyone who might be listening, she says, “I’m not sure what you mean.”

I know I’m supposed to shut up now, like our trip to the Society’s headquarters three days ago never happened — like I didn’t see what I saw or hear what I heard. I guess I’m supposed to act like it was just another illusion of my messed-up mind. But I know what happens when you start treating the truth like fiction, and fiction like the truth. I know how the lines blur, and I can’t let it happen again.

So I don’t shut up.

“What does the Society know?” I ask quietly, taking a step closer. “What aren’t you telling me? You’ve got to help him. You have to go in there and —”

“Eleanor?” My grandpa is standing at the door, calling to her. “We’re ready.”

Ready to do what? I want to yell, but do not say. It’s just another thing that no one will ever tell me.

So when Ms. Chancellor looks back at me and says, “Grace, whatever is wrong, dear, I hope you know that I’m here. That I’ll listen.” I just nod. I don’t even bother to lie anymore.

As I walk through the front doors, the sound of the protestors booms in my ears. They’re back, of course. If anything, they’re louder. They probably heard about the brawl last night. No doubt things are going to get worse before they get better.

Things can always get worse.

There are two marines on duty today, and neither of them says a word. I’m pretty sure they don’t notice the way my right arm hangs oddly, too gently at my side. If anyone questions why I work the gate with my left hand they don’t ask.

Protestors press against the barricades, and the sidewalk has disappeared into a narrow strip. People jostle and push, and every step is like a hot poker trying to stick between my ribs. When I touch my T-shirt, my fingers come away tinged with red.

I need help, of course. Even I know that much. The smart thing to do would be to turn around and go bang on the closed door until Ms. Chancellor opens it, to go to Jamie. Even Noah and Megan would help. But I know what will happen if I go to the hospital.

US Ambassador’s Granddaughter Stabbed in Brawl with Russian Suspect.

I might as well go ahead and start World War III right now.

So I tell myself, I’ll be okay. I’m fine. Really. He’ll be there, I practically chant.

He’s always there.

Then I see him, on the other side of the street, just far enough from the crowd to keep the whole thing in perspective. He sees me. In fact, he sees everything. And for the first time, I let myself double over. My steps falter.

I practically fall into the Scarred Man’s arms.

“I need your help.”

I sway. My vision blurs. I must have lost more blood than I realize because the Scarred Man’s grip is too tight. I’m fragile and vulnerable and all of the things I hate. He practically carries me down the street.

“Come on.”

The light in Dominic’s kitchen is too bright. He makes me sit on a stool in the middle of the fluorescent glare, and I can’t help but feel like I’m in an old-fashioned movie and he’s a cop or a spy trying to sweat the truth out of me. But, of course, Dominic barely says a word. So I use the light to study him.

There is not a scratch on him, save the obvious. It’s like there never was a fight, as if there was no mob. Last night? The guys on the street? They were boys, drunk and rowdy. Standing before me is an actual man. They never stood a chance.

“I’m sorry.” I don’t say for what. For getting into trouble, for bringing my problems to his door. For killing the love of his life. There’s so much to choose from that I don’t even try to be specific.

“Where are you hurt?” Concern seeps into his voice, but also annoyance.

I pull up my shirt. My dad is an Army Ranger and I spent half of my childhood in some kind of brace or cast. I know how to clean and bind a wound. But now blood is oozing through my makeshift bandages. The cut must be deeper than I thought. I must look as hideous as I feel.

“From last night?” Dominic rips the bandage away and I wince. He cocks an eyebrow, as if I’m being a baby.

When the Scarred Man drops to his knees and leans toward me, I tell him, “I got cut.”

“You did not get cut, Grace Olivia. You got stabbed.”

It’s the first time he has ever used my full name. My mother used to do that. It’s no doubt where he heard it, and that makes me sway again.

I blame it on the blood.

“You’re not going to tell me I should go to the hospital?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. It’s why I’m here. But still I hold my breath as the Scarred Man looks at me.

“You have seen enough of hospitals, I would expect.”

I don’t bother to agree. It would be redundant, and I’m coming to learn that Dominic is the kind of person who doesn’t waste anything. Not a movement; not a moment; not a breath.