All Fall Down (18 page)

“Good night, Grace.”

He starts toward Israel, then stops and calls, “Hey, Grace …”

“Yeah?”

His hands are in his pockets and the moonlight shines across his face. “Between you and me, I’m not as good as Lila says.”

“Okay.”

His smirk grows into an extremely cocky grin. “I’m better.”

He turns and leaves. I just smile after him, thinking,
I totally knew it
.

“Y
ou’ve got to be kidding me!”

Honestly, I don’t know what’s more worrisome: what Megan is saying or that she’s saying it with Barbies. But maybe the most shocking thing is how utterly un-Megan-like Megan is being in this moment.

She’s wearing a black tank top and baggy camouflage cargo pants and has a yellow highlighter stuck through her belt like a knife. Most of her glossy black hair is tucked up into a ski cap, but a few strands peek out. A decent portion of them are now a very dark shade of fuchsia.

“Is that permanent?” I ask, reaching out to touch her new pink hair before she slaps my hand away.

“I’m trying something new,” she says, undaunted. She points to Barbie’s Dream House and says, “We enter through the skylight in the master bedroom. Here.”

Rosie points to the Barbie jeep and says, “Where are we going to get our mobile observation unit?”

“Noah’s going to borrow his mom’s van,” Megan says.

Rosie nods, but Noah just says, “I am?”

“You are,” Megan says. “Now does anyone have any questions?”

“Who are you?” I ask. “And what have you done with Megan?”

But she just cuts her eyes at me.

“Now, we can’t be sure about the exact layout of Dominic’s place, but judging from the plans on file with the historical preservation society, that block of row houses was reconstructed after the war, and the following changes were allowed. The skylight is our window. Pardon the pun. So —”

“I’m not sure about this,” I say. I look through Barbie’s skylight at the friendship bracelets that are serving as rappelling cables, the unicorn stickers that represent cameras.

“The plan is solid,” Megan says. “This is our chance and we have to take it.”

“I know that, but if one of you gets hurt, I will never forgive myself.”

“If one of us gets hurt?” Megan shoots back. “Have you forgotten that you overheard him saying that he is supposed to
kill somebody
? What if the Scarred Man’s target is my mom? Did you think of that? Or Rosie’s dad? Or one of Noah’s parents? What if it’s your grandfather he’s after, Grace? Is it too risky then?”

She’s like a little camo-clad machine gun as she talks. A little camo-clad machine gun who has a point.

“Okay,” I say.

“Good.” Megan nods. “Let’s go.”

Darkness looks different in Adria than in anyplace else on earth. The flickering yellow of the streetlight mixes with the too-bright white of the moon. I look up and watch it bounce off the tile roofs of the narrow houses that stand side by side at attention. There are iron balconies and window boxes filled with white flowers. It’s like something from a postcard — from a dream.

All but one house in the row.

It keeps its shutters pulled tight even on the prettiest of days. Its locks have been upgraded and the owner never, ever sits on the stoop and talks and laughs like the other people on the block. This man comes and goes at irregular hours, and no one ever gets asked inside.

It looks like a row house.

It feels like a fortress.

At 11:00 p.m., the buildings appear dark gray against an inky-blue sky. The colors are too rich, though. Almost like watching a cartoon. But it’s no drawing — certainly not the dark figure that dashes across the rooftops, swooping and jumping like a low-flying bird. When it does a full twist mid-jump, I know the bird is just showing off.

“Focus, Rosie,” I say, forgetting that she can hear me.

“I need to concentrate here, Grace,” she replies, and I startle. There are always too many voices in my head. I really didn’t need three more. But Megan insisted we wear the little earbuds that she smuggled out of the security center of the embassy. I’ve been back less than two weeks, and already I’ve turned the sweetest girl on Embassy Row into a thief and a conspiracy theorist. Even for me, it is an impressively quick act of corruption.

“Okay, guys.” Rosie sounds slightly out of breath but more alive than I’ve ever heard her. “I’m at our entry point. Waiting for your go.”

And now I’m certain of two things.

1. We might actually try this ridiculous thing.

2. We all watch entirely too many movies.

Megan picks up a small tablet that shows a closed-circuit feed of the prime minister’s office. Standing at attention not far from the PM’s side is the Scarred Man.

“Are we clear?” Rosie asks again.

“Go. Go. Go,” Megan says.

Noah and I look at each other, then both reach for the doors of the van. In a flash, we’re out and crossing the street.

Megan has explained the basics. The rest I know from my dad.

Breaching a secure location isn’t about speed. It’s about efficiency. Going fast won’t do you any good if you spend half your time turning over floor lamps and setting off alarms.

So I know what to do. I know how to do it. After all, we’ve gone over it a dozen times. I’ve seen it in my sleep a dozen more. But it feels like someone else is inside my body — like I am watching from afar — as Noah, Megan, and I walk across the street.

On the off-chance the neighbors are watching, we walk and do not run. I laugh like a normal girl would (but not too loudly) and talk to my friends (but not too excitedly) and, most of all, I watch the small window in the door of the house that is almost always dark. When the top of a tiny head appears there, I’m ready.

The door swings open.

“What took you so long?” Rosie says with a wink.

The light on the security system is blinking red. A beeping sound is counting down. But Megan already has a tiny device out and is doing something to the keypad on the wall by the door. I see numbers spiraling across the screen, running through a sequence one by one, pecking out the code.

And still the chime keeps beeping.

“Megan …” Noah warns.

“Just a —” Another beep comes, longer, louder. Then it stops. “Got it.” Megan practically exhales the words, then leans against the wall and takes a deep breath. For the first time, she looks as terrified as Noah.

“Nice system.” Rosie sounds impressed.

Noah turns, taking in the first floor. “Not a nice place.”

He has a point. For all the security the Scarred Man has, you would think he’d be protecting art. Jewels. At the very least some high-end electronics. But the narrow room in which we stand has a fireplace and one very worn chair. There are no books on the shelves. We walk on and find very little food in the kitchen.

“It’s like a safe house,” Megan says.

“But it’s
his
house,” Noah adds. It’s easy to forget that, according to public records, the Scarred Man has lived here for ten years.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s split up and do this. I want us out of here fast.”

No one complains. No one asks any questions. Megan goes to work on the computer, and Rosie climbs onto Noah’s shoulders and starts installing cameras in the light fixtures and smoke detectors.

“What should I do?” I ask Megan.

“Don’t break anything,” she tells me.

I wish I had a job — something to do — but the truth is, I would be useless at it. Megan isn’t just smart about computers. She knows this about me, too. I am in the Scarred Man’s house, and all I can do is look at the bed, thinking,
The man who killed my mother sleeps here
. In the bathroom, I look into the mirror and imagine his face staring back at me. The face that I saw through the smoke and the fire. The face that has haunted me for years.

Carefully, I run my fingers across the top of the dresser. A little loose change lies on the table by the bed. In his walk-in closet there are five dark suits, identical in cut, and seven white shirts all fresh from the dry cleaner and still in their plastic bags. It looks more like a hotel room than a home. Like he fully expects to pack everything up and be gone at a moment’s notice. Like he knows that someday the ghosts will catch up to him.

He just doesn’t know today is that day.

I don’t feel any pain as my fingernails dig into my palms. There is no blood, just a steady, constant throbbing to tell me that I am still alive. I am alive but my mother is dead. And I’m in the home of the man who killed her.

“Oh no.”

Megan’s voice isn’t quite a shout, and that is why it’s scary.

“What is it?” Noah asks.

“We’ve got to go. We’ve got to go
now
.”

“Where’s Grace?” someone says.

I hear the question in my ear, but I can’t take my eyes off of the leather jacket that hangs in the back of the closet. It’s a deep, worn brown. The sleeves are so soft that I know that it used to be his favorite. The position in the closet tells me that it isn’t anymore.

I step farther back into the closet, and then I’m not in the townhome.
I’m standing on the street. I see the man through the window of my mother’s shop, his tall frame and broad shoulders, the dark brown leather jacket that he wears.

I reach for the sleeve, bring the soft cotton cuff to my nose. And in the confined space I swear that it still smells like smoke.

The cuff is stiff in one place and I finger it, know instantly that it’s dried blood.

My mother’s blood is on my hands.

“Grace,” a voice says in my ear, but I don’t move. I can’t. My body no longer belongs to me. It is frozen in the past.

“Grace!” Noah’s hand is on my arm. “We’ve got to get out of here. He’s coming.”

“No!” Megan’s voice rings out just as, downstairs, a door opens and closes.

I look at Noah. He shakes his head. “He’s here.”

Carefully, Noah reaches for the door and pulls it closed. He pushes me farther back into the closet. I’m pressed right up against the leather jacket, wondering how Noah can breathe so deeply in a tiny space that is so filled with smoke.

There is so much smoke.

“You okay?” Noah whispers.

I nod my head and try to slow my breathing, and yet my heart keeps pounding. I think I might throw up.

“What happened?” I whisper. “I thought he was supposed to be gone most of the night?”

Megan hears me over the mic. “He must have a secondary system. The motion detectors went off and now … hide!”

We’re already hiding, but Noah doesn’t say that. He’s too busy looking at me.

“Grace, are you okay?”

“Fine.” I force the word out. I’m grateful for the darkness and the cramped space. Noah is pressing into me. I couldn’t see the door if I tried. There is absolutely no place for me to run or room for me to move. He’s pressing against me so tightly that I can’t even tremble.

“What do we do now?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Noah whispers. “What do people usually do in these situations? I mean … we could make out?” Even in the dark, he reads the look I give him. “Or not. Yeah. I was thinking not.”

I hear footsteps in the bedroom. The closet door opens and closes quickly — just a cursory glance. Noah and I stay shrouded in the shadows.

The phone rings and I hear the Scarred Man answer, but I can’t make out the words.

Is it the alarm company calling to check on the disturbance? His boss calling to ask why he left his post? Wrong number?

I can’t tell.

I’m not sure how long we stand in the dark. I try to focus on my breathing, the rise and fall of Noah’s chest. But I can’t stop thinking about the smoke.