As we exited the parking garage through a different ramp, I caught sight of the black SUV circling the hotel entrance, searching for us. We had gained a temporary advantage, but I knew it wouldn’t last long.
For 40 years, I’d been Helena Carter—widow, history teacher, grandmother—a woman whose greatest adventures had been lived vicariously through books. Now, in the space of 30 minutes, I had become something else entirely. A guardian of dangerous secrets, a runner from unnamed threats, protector of both my granddaughter and whatever explosive truth my son had risked everything to expose.
The Chicago evening spread before us, its familiar skyline suddenly seeming alien and full of potential threats. I checked the mirrors one more time and set course for the downtown public library, wondering how many other ordinary lives had been upended by a single whispered warning.
He’s gone. We need to leave now. Six simple words that had changed everything.
The Chicago Public Library stood like a fortress of knowledge against the darkening sky, its massive stone facade illuminated by strategically placed lights. Under different circumstances, I would have appreciated its grandeur. Tonight, it represented only a temporary haven, a place to find the next breadcrumb in whatever trail Robert had left for us.
I parked two blocks away in a public garage, paying cash again. Before leaving the car, I rummaged through the emergency bag I kept in the trunk, a habit formed during harsh Midwestern winters, finding a baseball cap and light jacket for myself and a hooded sweatshirt for Bettany.
“We’re going to play a game,” I told her as we walked toward the library, my eyes constantly scanning our surroundings. “We’re going to pretend to be different people for a little while, like actors in a play.”
Bettany nodded solemnly. “Because of the bad men?”
“Yes, sweetheart. just to be safe.”
“I can be Elsa,” she declared, referring to her favorite character from the movies she watched endlessly.
“And you can be Anna,” I supplied, grateful for her ability to frame our situation as an adventure rather than a nightmare. “Sisters stick together, right?”
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