"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."