I grab her hand. "Kara, your house was over that way--"

She stops and faces me, tilting her head to the side. "You think I don't know where I live, Locke? It's morning. My mom would be at work. The firm is over this--"

"Kara. Your mom--" But I can't finish. Her eyes are cutting through me. Your mom won't be at work. She knows that. She has to. I squeeze her hand and nod. "Sorry. You lead the way."

A half block away, the truth is revealed, so I don't have to say anything. There is no sign. No firm. No help. The historic building is still there, but Brown, Kirk, and Manning is gone. Kara inquires inside.

"Who?" the receptionist Bot asks. "Can you repeat that, please?"

Kara shakes her head and runs out without answering.

On the sidewalk her breaths come in gulps. "Stupid Bot! Everyone knew Brown, Kirk, and Manning. The freaking Queen of England knew who they were."

Watching her is worse than looking at the landscape of pilings where my house once stood. There is nothing I can do to change this for her. I didn't cry at my loss, but I want to cry for hers. The pain claws at my throat, but I swallow it away. "It's been a long time, Kara," I whisper.

"My house! My parents would never sell the house. It's been in the family forever." She is already walking down the street in another direction, and I follow. If I could think of anything to stop her, I would.

Her pace is brisk. She bumps shoulders with others on the sidewalk without apology. I hurry beside her to keep up, trying to dodge the shoulders, elbows, and feet that she ignores. Within minutes we are turning down the priciest streets in Boston. We arrive at her house on Beacon Hill--at least what's left of it. The front wall is rubble, and a rotten door frame stands at the top of the stairs like a ghostly portal. The houses on either side are in the same state of decay. They are all fenced off with a sign posted in front of each one. The sign in front of Kara's says

BOSTON RESTORATION PROJECT PENDING FUNDS

FORMER HOME OF

SENATOR JOHN FARRELL, 2091-2186

She stares at the rubble without speaking.

"Kara, we knew that things would--"

"I don't even know who Senator Farrell is. It was our house long before he--" She takes off, running down the street.

I chase after her. "Kara! Wait!" I know where she's going. There's only one place left to go. She zigzags down streets. Geraniums, cobblestones, and black shutters race past our vision. Heads turn, watching us. We can't afford to attract attention. I strain to overtake her, but it's like she's on fire. She makes the last turn, and the crowds thicken. We weave in and out, and I lose sight of her several times, but we arrive at our destination at the same time. We stand in front of a perfectly restored brownstone of massive proportions. Bright red geraniums overflow from every window box, and a sign overhead declares its present use:

CLAYTON BENDER ART GALLERY & MUSEUM

In a street-level window is a small, dark green plaque with gold lettering.

HISTORIC HOME OF JENNA ANGELINE FOX

FOR WHOM THE JENNA STANDARD IS NAMED

Kara runs up the wide stairway, throws open the door, and enters. "Where is she?"

The woman sitting behind a desk is startled, but she smiles. "Are you looking for a particular artist?"

"Jenna Fox! Where is she?"

"On the next floor there's a fabulous gallery dedicated to artifacts from her childhood and historic period. Would you like to--"

"No! I mean the person. The real Jenna Fox. Where is she?"

The woman laughs. "Oh, her. She hasn't lived here in centuries. She's given a free long-term lease on this mansion to the Boston Art Guild to promote local artists. She's a great patron of--"

"Where is she now?"

The woman's smile fades. Her brow wrinkles, and she pushes her chair back a few inches. "Why, everyone knows. She's lived in California for years. Oak Creek. A small town just north of San Diego. I don't think--"

The woman stops talking. I watch the fear spreading across her face as she looks at Kara.

"Thank you," I say. "We appreciate your help." I pull Kara out of the gallery before the woman calls for help or security or whatever frightened people do now.

I hurry Kara along by the elbow, and when I look back, I see the woman has come out to the steps of the gallery and is watching us. I turn down the first side street and then down a narrow alley.

Kara still hasn't said a word. Halfway down the alley, I stop and take her face in both of my hands. "Kara," I whisper. "Kara."

She looks at me, her eyes dead. "California."

I lower my mouth to hers, wanting to take the deadness away from her eyes, wanting to be more important than Jenna, wanting to change something when I've never been able to change anything. I know immediately I have made the wrong choice. Her lips are hard and unresponsive. I pull her close to me instead.

"It doesn't matter," I say. "We'll be okay. We have each other. Dot will help us. Kara, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Locke," she whispers into my ear. "Oh, no. No. Locke." I think she is finally reaching out to me, and I feel a surge inside, but then she pushes me away. She shakes her head, her eyes focused somewhere behind me. An icy chill tingles across the back of my neck, and I slowly turn around.

Chapter 23

"Hello, Locke. And my lovely Kara."

Dr. Gatsbro stands at the end of the alley, flanked by Hari on one side and two goons I don't recognize on the other. A large bandage covers one side of his forehead. I turn to tell Kara to run, but behind us are two more goons, Miesha, and a long black limo blocking the other end of the alley.