It probably seems too improbable for Alexei to believe, this cover-up. My crazy theory. He doesn’t know what I know — he hasn’t seen what I’ve seen.

I look at the Iranian embassy. It is still dilapidated. Still forbidden. It seems like a lifetime ago that my friends and I huddled in its basement, speculating on the Scarred Man’s every move. I miss that feeling — the certainty that came with knowing who the boogeyman was and what needed to be done to stop him.

But right now the villains are nameless and faceless, omnipresent and filling every shadow. Maybe I’m becoming paranoid in my old age. Or maybe paranoia is the only thing that will allow me to see seventeen.

“I know it, Alexei. And if you’ll stop and think about it you’ll know it, too.”

“Grace —”

“We don’t know who killed him,” I say. “Or why. But do you really think this was a mugging or some random act of violence? You saw his body on the beach that day. Did that look like a boy who’d been in an accident?”

He puts his hands over mine. They are warm, pressing against my skin.

“I’ll be okay, Gracie.”

I used to hate it when he called me that. I used to say he didn’t have the right — that it was reserved for Jamie and Jamie alone. But my nickname sounds different when Alexei says it. Maybe it’s his accent, or maybe it is something else. Something … more.

Again, I think about Dominic’s words, the unspoken danger that pulsed beneath the moment. My mother got hurt. Someone wanted her dead. And I killed her.

I vow here and now that I will never again let someone get hurt if I can help it.

Never again.

“I’ll be okay, Gracie,” Alexei reassures me, but I turn my back on him, look up at the Iranian embassy, the rotten fence and overgrown weeds. Another country. Another world.

“My father said that as soon as the political aspect can be set aside we will be able to pursue justice instead of vengeance. He says —”

“He wants the mob to go away, Alexei. And he’s willing to sacrifice his own son to make it happen.”

Alexei pulls away. He can’t face me when he says, “It’s not like that.”

“It is exactly like that.”

For a second, the silence stretches between us. It’s almost quiet here, on the north end of Embassy Row. The protestors are still chanting in the distance, but the wind has shifted now. It blows their cries toward the sea.

“Please do not be angry with me.”

“You think I’m angry?” I snap, then soften. I have to make him see. “Alexei, I’m terrified.”

“I’m sorry,” he says.

For leaving me?

For scaring me?

For hurting me?

I can’t tell and he doesn’t say. So I hold out the bottle of water Dominic gave me.

“I’m not thirsty anymore,” I tell him. “Do you want this?”

It’s just a bottle of water, but in the diplomatic world it’s never just that. It is an olive branch. A peace offering.

Alexei takes it with a smile.

“Thank you,” he says, taking a sip.

“Don’t let it go to waste, you know. It might be your last taste of freedom.”

Alexei’s eyes look like he wants to keep smiling as he drinks faster, deeper. But then, even though he’s standing still, he stumbles.

His hand goes limp. The bottle tumbles to the street and starts to roll down the long, sloping hill. But I don’t care about that. I put my arms around his waist and hold him tightly.

“Grace, I don’t feel …”

I know exactly how he feels, but I don’t say so. I just grip his waist tighter with my left hand while, with my right, I slip the nearly empty vial of medicine into my pocket.

Alexei’s gait is uneven as I lead him past the Iranian fence. His legs wobble. But thankfully we are out of view of the street by the time he passes out completely and falls, sprawling into the weeds.

I look down at the sleeping boy who, for once, looks helpless. Innocent.

“It’s for your own good,” I assure him.

Alexei doesn’t say a thing.

I’m almost to Brazil before Noah and Megan see me. He looks worried something bad has happened. He has no idea.

“I got your text. What’s going —”

“Come with me,” I say, and sprint toward the city gates.

I can hear Noah and Megan behind me, but I don’t stop or look back.

“Grace, slow down!” Noah yells, but I am running down the beach like there is no looking back. And there isn’t. Not for me. Not anymore. I will not stop to consider what I’ve done, that it might be a mistake. I did what I had to do. And if I can’t make Noah and Megan see that …

I have to make Noah and Megan see that.

My side no longer hurts. It’s the adrenaline, I know. I have to keep moving, keep fighting. I have to keep us safe and make them see.

When we reach the cliffs that mark the north end of the beach, it’s like we’ve reached a dead end. Almost.

Then they see it.

“No.” Noah pulls back and shakes his head. He has no intention of following me through the small, arching doorway that was once a hidden passage through the great wall of Adria. Forty years ago, it was the gateway that allowed the Iranian embassy private access to the beach. It’s rusty and overgrown now, but it still works, I know, and I push through it, desperately needing my friends to follow.