The land before him bore no resemblance to any map, to any land he’d ever seen. Pocked by giant craters, swirling with wispy smoke, all landmarks obliterated.

“What now?” Holman slithered into the crater, with Brady and Lyons behind him.

Clay knifed his hand westward. “Let’s find that gun.”

CHICAGO

Today might turn out to be the saddest in Leah’s life, and yet sweet, joyful peace swirled inside. “Thank you, Lord. Thank you for showing me the good.”

In Leah’s lap, Helen sucked on her fist.

Leah kissed her tiny nose, then prayed for comfort and strength for everyone in the church. How many of them had husbands or brothers or sons or fathers fighting today? Even those who didn’t have a loved one overseas needed comfort. All those servicemen were America’s boys.

Across the aisle, a woman in her sixties stared at Leah.

Oh dear. She didn’t know the rituals of this church, and she’d probably violated some protocol. Leah gave the lady a little smile and nod, and she stood to leave. She had time to visit another orphanage or two before lunchtime.

In the foyer, dim light from the overcast day filtered through the windows of the door.

“Excuse me?”

Leah turned.

The lady who had been watching her raised a nervous smile. “Please pardon me for staring. You must think me terribly rude. I—well, you remind me so much of a dear friend. I—oh my.” She pulled a handkerchief from the breast pocket of her beige suit.

“That’s all right, ma’am.”

The woman dabbed at her eyes, and her smile flickered. “Please pardon me. You do remind me of her. Something about you. Why, even the way you were praying and the way you walk and the way you’re holding your baby. Except the last time I saw my friend, she was holding two babies. Oh dear. Look at me. I promise, I don’t usually act this way.”

Two babies . . . ? Leah could barely breathe. “Your friend—she’s gone?”

“I’m afraid so. A long time ago.” She drew in a deep breath and gave her head a little shake. “Well, thank you. I’ve missed her, and it was—it was nice to remember her.”

Leah moistened her drying lips. “When did she die? In the ’20s—1929?”

The woman blinked large brown eyes. “Why, yes. I believe that was the year.”

“What was her name?” Leah stepped closer. “Your friend? What was her name?”

“Althea. Althea Karahalios.”

All the air rushed from Leah’s chest. “Karahalios. Ka-wa-los.”

“Are you—are you all right, ma’am?”

Leah laughed, high and staccato. “Karahalios. Althea Karahalios. She had children, you said. Tell me. Did she have three girls? Please tell me.”

The woman’s wide mouth drifted open. “Are you . . . ?”

“My name is Thalia. Did she have a daughter named Thalia?”