THURSDAY, JUNE 7
5:55 A.M.
MARTHA WELLS RESIDENCE
LYNNHURST NEIGHBORHOOD, MINNEAPOLIS
Ian opened his eyes. His old room, wrapped in early morning shadows, seemed unfamiliar. He sat up.
A stabbing pain shot through his head from temple to temple.
A stress headache. Ian rubbed his temples. They used to be common. This was the first one he’d had since high school.
Triggered by lack of sleep probably. Or stress. He looked at the white alarm clock on the nightstand. Sleep-deprived or not, he wouldn’t be getting any more rest this morning, not with this headache. He cradled his head for a minute longer before plodding down the hall for an aspirin and a hot shower.
His mother’s bedroom door was closed, signaling that she was still in bed. Her door had been closed when he’d gotten home from his downtown appointments the night before. On a whim he’d wanted to ask her if she knew anything about Dad’s work with the James Doyle Trust—and even contemplated waking her up to do so. But the better part of his nature had prevailed, and he let her sleep.
Shaving at the sink as hot water filled the bathroom with steam, he heard the distant sound of banging at the front door, followed by a muffled call. “Hello! Anybody home? Hello?”
Ian wiped the remaining cream from his face, put his clothes back on, and hurried into the hall. A police car was visible through the living room window, parked on the dark street. His heartbeat picked up as he rushed to open the door.
A stocky, uniformed officer stood on the stoop, thumbs hooked in his belt. “You can’t be Connor Wells,” he said.
“No,” Ian stammered. “I mean, this is his house. But that’s my dad. He’s deceased.”
The officer’s eyes widened. “Do you know Martha Wells?”
“Yes. She’s my mother.”
“Well, then I have your mother in the squad car.” He pointed over his shoulder.
“That’s not possible.” Ian glanced back toward the hallway.
“I’m afraid so. Looks like she was out driving all night and ran out of gas over near Children’s Hospital. She’s very confused. She asked us to get in touch with her husband, Connor Wells. Claimed she was driving to see him at his office last night. Does she have Alzheimer’s? Dementia?”
“Early-onset Alzheimer’s,” Ian said through a haze of concern. “She alright?”
The officer nodded. “She’s fine. A patrol found her seated by the side of the road down on Lake Street looking lost and scared. We confirmed her license was still good, so we didn’t ticket her. I take it by your reaction that you didn’t know she was out last night.”
Ian shook his head, growing self-conscious. “She must have snuck out while I was at a meeting. When I got home, I assumed she’d gone to bed.”
The officer looked Ian in the eyes. “You seem appropriately concerned, so I’m returning her to your care. But you may need to look into a memory-care facility. If we have another incident, I’ll have to engage State Protective Services. At the very least, my advice is that you take away her keys.”
“I thought I had.” Ian let out a sigh. “Thanks for helping out.”
“It’s alright,” the officer said. “How about I drive you both to get some gas and pick up her car? Saves you from making other arrangements for a tow.”
Ian repeated his thanks and rushed to grab his shoes and wallet.
His mother stared out the passenger-side window as Ian drove the back streets returning to the Lynnhurst home. Her hair was flat and dry, her clothes wrinkled from long wear. Worse, she wasn’t speaking, and her eyes had a haunted look that amplified his guilt for having left her alone the night before.
After a few attempts at talking, he’d let her be until they were back inside the garage and he’d turned off the engine. “Mom,” he said, finally breaking the silence, “the next time you want to hit the clubs at night, wait for me, will you? I’ll be your bodyguard.”
His mother didn’t look his direction. “I don’t know what I did last night,” she said in a monotone.
“Well, it doesn’t matter,” he answered lightly, saddened by the uncommon self-pity in her voice. “We’re home now. Why don’t you try to get some sleep? I’ll come in later and check on you.”
She left the car, treading silently out of the garage toward the back door that led to her kitchen. Ian watched the garage door close behind her.
The instant she was out of hearing, he pounded the steering wheel with his fists. This isn’t happening! Not now. He was not moving her out of her house and into a memory-care home. He’d figure something else out. Extend Livia’s hours. Hire a night nurse. Move home himself . . .
His hands ached as he took a deep breath, refusing to dwell on the truth—that all options were either unaffordable or impractical.
Unless he could finish the trust work successfully.
As Ian moved to exit the car, his eye caught sight of a box in the back seat. It was shoe-box size, with a red X marked in masking tape on top. Just like the one with the handgun in his trunk. He leaned over the seat and retrieved it.
By the time he’d reached Martha’s bedroom, she was already in bed, the covers rising and falling gently. Ian stood for several minutes in the doorway to be sure she was asleep. Quietly he made his way to the bathroom to resume his delayed shower.
When he returned to the kitchen dressed for work, he went first to the box on the table. He noticed the tape that once held the flaps closed had been cut away. He poured himself a glass of orange juice from the fridge, sat down at the table, and opened the box.
Inside was a folded, yellowing newspaper. Ian studied it momentarily, then set it aside. Beneath the paper was a stack of objects. He pulled them out, one by one. Five sets of thin gloves, the leather lining cracked and aging. Two dated-looking ski masks. A screwdriver. Other metal tools he didn’t recognize.
All old junk. The sight only made him sadder. What possible reason was there for his parents to keep this stuff among Dad’s things all these years—any more than the rest of what lined the living room? And how had this particular box made its way to the car like some special treasure? How far and how quickly was his mother slipping away?
His cellphone rang, startling Ian from his thoughts. With a glance toward the hallway and his mother’s room, he answered it.
“Good,” Sean Callahan’s deep voice rumbled over the line. “I caught you. Meet me at the security desk in the Wells Fargo Building on Sixth Street at eleven tonight.”
“Eleven? What for?” Ian asked.
“It’s arranged. We can set up the special account at your firm and transfer over the trust funds.”
Ian shook his head. “Nobody’s going to do a wire transfer at eleven at night.”
“Just meet me there,” Callahan growled. “Bring an acknowledgment form for everybody to sign after the transfer.”
He hung up.
Ian stared at the phone. Another strange night ahead. And he was already dragging from two nights of little sleep.
He glanced once more down the hall. He should stay home today. Take the opportunity to gauge how much his mom’s decline was accelerating. But if he did, he couldn’t get anything done on the trust. After tonight, he would be down to five days and nights to complete the work.
He needed that money. He had to keep working today. Martha would be asleep for hours, probably all day. And if she got up, she’d be fine. She’d been without nightly supervision without a single incident before today. Even during the day, Livia was there only three days a week.
Ian patted his pockets, confirming he still had the keys to his mother’s car. He wouldn’t make the mistake of leaving them behind again. And he’d check in every few hours, get more help from Katie if necessary.
Ian left a note for his mother on the kitchen table. Dinner with Brook tonight, but I’ll be back early enough for a game of gin if you’re up. Then he went back outside, the box of junk in one hand and the yellowed newspaper in the other, and stuffed both into a garbage can in the garage.
It’d be fine, he told himself as he headed out to his car in the driveway. He just needed to get the trust case done. Afterward he’d look into what could be done for his mom.
It’d be fine.