I watched the trees along the highway turn into dark, solid walls under the gray morning sky.

Adrian reached over and took my hand.

His palm was warm, and his grip was steady.

“It is really gone,” Adrian said, looking out the window at the empty road.

“The legacy, the money, the names,” Adrian said.

“I do not want any of it,” he added.

“Neither do I,” I said.

The van finally slowed down as we entered a small town near the water.

The streets were empty, lined with closed bait shops and small wooden cottages.

We stopped at the end of a gravel driveway that led to a small, two-story house painted light blue.

The roof was covered in dry pine needles, and a wooden porch faced the grey waters of the lake.

“This is it,” the driver said, speaking for the first time.

We gathered the sleeping children and stepped out of the van into the cold morning air.

The wind off the lake was sharp and smelled of fresh water and pine trees.

Isabella did not get out of the van.