All Fall Down (25 page)

Dr. Rainer hands me a tissue and continues. “The human mind is a miraculous thing. Somehow, it knows what it can take. It self-limits in that way. And three years ago you knew that you weren’t ready to process this information. You let yourself forget. And the people in your life couldn’t bring themselves to remind you. They thought it was best.”

Was it? I’m still not sure. I want to go back to before I knew. Anger is a far easier emotion than guilt.

“The grief and guilt were simply too much for you, and so your mind chose simply to forget. But it couldn’t forget everything.”

“The Scarred Man,” I say.

Dr. Rainer nods slowly. “You have a condition known as acute stress disorder. You have a condition, Grace. And we are going to help you get better.”

She smiles when she says it. I try to smile back, knowing you can’t possibly put a name on who I am and what I’ve done.

“Come on,” the doctor says, rising. “There’s something we think it’s time for you to see.”

“We?” I ask.

When the door opens, Ms. Chancellor is standing there, smiling at me. “Come now, Grace. It’s time.”

I’m quiet as I follow Ms. Chancellor down the street. I don’t ask where we’re going. Somehow, I already know she won’t tell me.

“Your friends have been asking to see you, Grace. Noah and Megan and Rosie come over nearly every day.”

“I know,” I say, then realize someone is missing. “Alexei?”

“Well, I’m afraid Alexei has returned to Moscow. There are some …
changes
going on next door.”

Alexei’s leaving?
I wonder. Then I realize, no, Alexei left. And I have a brief moment of relief. I’m glad he’s gone. He’s safe. And far, far away from me.

Ms. Chancellor turns onto a narrow street that runs behind the Costa Rican embassy. I realize that I have never been this way before, but I just follow, listening to the sound of Ms. Chancellor’s high heels on the cobblestones as a heavy mist begins to fall. But still, she doesn’t hurry.

“You killed the prime minister,” I say.

“Actually, he is in a coma at the moment. But I did shoot him, yes.” She stops and studies me. There is a strength in her brown eyes. “And I would gladly do it again, if that’s what I had to do to save you. I would do anything to save you.”

I’m just starting to say something when Ms. Chancellor turns and examines the alley around us. “Here we go!” she says as she finds the odd symbol in the stone and presses.

I don’t say a thing as the stones begin to move, revealing an entrance into one of the ancient tunnels. It’s funny watching her navigate the old ladder in her skirt and heels, but she does it with a great deal of class, of course. It’s almost like she does it every day.

“Why do I get the feeling there is a lot that you aren’t telling me?” I ask after a moment. “Will you tell me now?”

“Yes, Grace. Now I tell you everything.”

Outside, the rain grows harder, and I hear water dripping in the tunnels. The air is hot and humid. It’s like walking through a very warm fog.

“For starters,” Ms. Chancellor begins, “I suppose you have figured out by now that three years ago the prime minister ordered Dominic to kill your mother. But Dominic was loyal to her.”

I read the truth in her eyes, the fact she can’t quite say. “He was in love with her, wasn’t he?”

Ms. Chancellor nods gently. “They were childhood sweethearts. Your mother grew up and married your father, but I believe Dominic loved Caroline all of his life. Then he was ordered to kill her. Of course, he didn’t dare refuse the prime minister’s order, because he couldn’t risk someone else being hired to do the job. That was when Dominic formed another plan.”

“He staged her death. I saw her through the window and it looked like she was dead,” I say, half explaining myself. As if there is any explanation. My body is numb. “I saw my mother dead.”

“Yes, sweetheart. You did. Or, you
thought
you did. He was going to take a picture to prove it was over, and then he was going to burn her shop to the ground and take her into hiding. He’d already secured another body. They’d faked her dental records. Really, he had thought of everything except …”

“Me.”

“Yes,” Ms. Chancellor says softly. “When your mother did pass away, Dominic returned here and resumed his old job. The prime minister assumed that he had killed your mother, and Dominic was able to get closer to his boss. And closer. But when you returned to Embassy Row and began talking about how you had seen the ‘Scarred Man’ kill your mother, the prime minister panicked. And he ordered Dominic to kill again.”

“Me.” The word is barely more than a whisper. “He was supposed to kill me, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, Grace.” Ms. Chancellor tilts her head. “If you had never identified Dominic as your mother’s murderer, then you would have never been seen as a threat. But you did. And so you were.”

“He was meeting you, wasn’t he?” I ask her. “That night in the US embassy.”

Ms. Chancellor smiles. It’s like I’ve finally given her a reason to be proud of me. “He was indeed. That night Dominic came to tell me about his new mission, and together we tried to form a plan to keep you safe. Or safer. I’m sorry to say we weren’t as successful as either of us would have liked. He was going to leave the country and take you with him, but now … well, now our plans change once again.”

And then I think about Megan’s question — the one neither of us could ever start to answer.

“Why?” I stop, force Ms. Chancellor to turn back and study me. “Why did the prime minister want my mother dead?”

“That, my dear, is an excellent question. And one that — even after three years — we aren’t quite sure how to answer.” Ms. Chancellor takes a step toward a pair of double doors, but stops, her hands resting there. As if this threshold matters — this question matters. As if neither of us will ever be able to turn back.

“The one thing we do know,” Ms. Chancellor says, “is that it probably had something to do with her job.”

“Her job?” I have to laugh. “She was an army wife — an antiques dealer.”

Then it is Ms. Chancellor’s turn to smile.

“No, Grace. Your mother was those things, of course. But she wasn’t
just
those things. There were aspects of her life that she could never tell anyone. Not even you.”

When Ms. Chancellor pushes open the doors, I expect another room — perhaps another stretch of tunnel. What I see doesn’t make sense. There are more doors beyond the threshold. And more than doors. I recognize the gears and wheels — the same type of mechanisms that open and close the entrances to the tunnels that lay scattered throughout the city.

And there, in the center of all the wheels and gears, I see the same emblem that I have never really stopped to study before.

Ms. Chancellor places her hand on that emblem and pushes. Instantly, the gears spring to life. Turning, spiraling, shifting like a well-oiled machine. Sections of the wall begin to move, tumbling together one after another, until there is a great, round hole where the wall used to be.

I’ve been running around these passageways for days now. I know the low ceilings and musty-smelling corridors like I know the back of my own hand. But I don’t know anything, really, I’m coming to realize as I follow Ms. Chancellor through the great round hole.

The room that greets us isn’t even a room, really. It’s more like a cathedral, stretching out beneath the city. A high arched ceiling stands above a marble floor. And with one glance I can tell that it is old. No, not old.
Ancient
. I’m half afraid to follow Ms. Chancellor out onto the landing that sweeps around the massive room, overlooking rows and rows of books. One long stone wall is lined with weapons — swords and shields and spears. I look at Ms. Chancellor.

“You’re going to be okay, Grace,” Ms. Chancellor says, the words almost knocking me off-balance.

“I’m going to be okay,” I repeat, then grip the ancient railing in front of me, looking down into the past.

Ms. Chancellor holds out her hand, gestures for me to follow. “Come, Grace. There is so much for you to learn.”

ALLY CARTER
is the
New York Times
bestselling author of the Gallagher Girls and Heist Society series. Her books have been published all over the world, in over twenty languages. She grew up on a farm in Oklahoma and has never caused an international incident (to her knowledge). You can visit her online at www.allycarter.com.

Copyright © 2015 by Ally Carter

All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc.,
Publishers since 1920.
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2014947739

First edition, February 2015

Cover design by Yaffa Jaskoll

Cover art © 2015 by Kenneth Choi

Cover cityscape © Dennis van de Water/Shutterstock, Inc.

e-ISBN 978-0-545-65478-4

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