“Lay off,” Isaac says as he steers around a cab that is letting a passenger out. “You’re making her nuts, Rose.”

“Meri knows I’m just being helpful.”

“Meri knows you are pushy and is too nice to tell you that you sound like one of the spokespeople for Dad’s office.”

“I’m not that nice,” I say, even though Isaac’s right. Rose does sort of sound like the talking heads on one of the country’s two news channels. They all smile in a way that, in recent months, totally grates on my nerves.

“But I am trying to focus,” I admit. “That might be easier if I just have a little space to think.”

“See.” Isaac smiles at his rearview mirror. Rose sighs but is quiet for the next several blocks. We drive across the Chicago River, sparkling gray blue as it snakes through the city. Isaac honks to get the cars in front of him moving, and my stomach flips when I see Liberty Tower—the building where my mother used to work—come into view. A large screen shows the projects that the department housed inside has worked on throughout the year. It’s a reminder to everyone how far we have come since the days when Chicago was the most dangerous city in the country.

Isaac maneuvers the car to the curb in front of the rust-colored stone building that Mom told me was one of the most historic in the city—built after the Great Chicago Fire on the site of the old City Hall.

“Good luck,” Isaac says as he brings the car to a stop. “Call us when you are ready to be picked up.”

Rose frowns. “But—”

“She can handle this part alone,” Isaac cuts off his sister. “Right, Meri?”

I nod, hoping he’s right. Rose shouts good luck to me and reminds me again about my hair as I walk down the sidewalk toward the arching stone entryway and gold doors that shine in the late-afternoon sun. Other than the required billboard-sized screen above the front doors, the outside of the building is stately and beautiful in its construction. But it is the lobby that once again takes my breath away. White marble columns and walls all etched with gold greet me. I clutch my tablet tight to my chest as I walk under the words “THE ROOKERY” toward a security official ensconced in a white-and-gold marble nook.

I give him my name and nervously wait as he calls up to the head of the City Art Program to see if I am expected.

“Mr. Beschloss will be leaving soon, but he says I can let you up.” He pushes out of his chair with a wince.

“You don’t have to get up,” I say. “I know where the elevator is. My mother used to work here.”

He shakes his head and ambles down the hallway. “Mr. Beschloss is on the eighth floor.” When the gold elevator door opens, he holds up a red-and-white identification badge marked “CSS,” then waves it in front of a small black scanner. “The elevator won’t take you to that floor without this. He’s in suite 802. Good luck.”