He stopped near a row of high hedges.

He leaned down and lifted Noah out of the stroller, holding him against his chest.

“Carry Lena,” Adrian told me. “We need to abandon the stroller. It makes us too slow.”

I unbuckled Lena and lifted her.

She was heavy, her small arms wrapping around my neck immediately.

“Mama, where are we going?” she whispered into my ear.

“We’re taking a walk, sweetie,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

Adrian grabbed Oliver under his free arm and took my hand.

He led us toward the back entrance of the Art Institute gardens.

The stone walls of the museum rose up ahead of us, dark and imposing under the gray Chicago sky.

The gardens were quieter than the main park, shielded by tall trees and bronze sculptures.

A few tourists were taking photos near the fountain, but they didn’t look at us.

“Adrian, tell me what is happening,” I said as we entered the shadow of the brick courtyard.

“My mother is in Chicago,” he said.

I stopped walking.

“Isabella?” I asked. “You told me she died five years ago.”