Page 2

He wedged the phone between his shoulder and ear and finished speaking with the calm authority of a seasoned physician, rather than one still in residency. She absorbed a speck of comfort in listening to him. Pride renewed her energy. How had she birthed such a capable human, when her entire life she felt anything but?

Taylor pocketed the phone and faced Linnea.

She offered a conceding grimace. “Okay. You can come, but if the person I need to talk with is home, you’ll have to wait outside.”

He plucked snowflakes from his long eyelashes. “Does this have to do with Everett?” he said, referring to his father, her ex-husband.

“No.” Not exactly.

Taylor shook his head in what appeared to be annoyed resignation, and he helped her walk again.

Once inside the building’s foyer, a set of secured glass doors blocked further entrance. Linnea scanned the numbers on the mailboxes until she landed on 212. Written in a faint scrawl, she made out P. Johansson.

She pressed the button to ring him.

She waited. Nothing. Would she have to come back? When? She was scheduled for another round of chemotherapy next week. The disappointment joined her anxiety, blending with the sickness.

Taylor huffed.

Linnea tried again. And again.

“Mom.”

One last time. The long drone went unanswered. “Dammit!” she said through clamped teeth.

Her son was now cautious with her. “Why don’t we go back to the car?”

She slumped against the door streaked with melted snow and pushed it open with her weak shoulder. Was it time to call Everett for help? God, she could only imagine what her ex-husband was going to say.

A loud buzz droned, followed by a click.

She whirled and caught her stomach. Taylor lunged and yanked the inner door open, holding it for her to pass through.

Linnea mounted the stained, carpeted stairs that summoned marijuana funk, a smell that dredged up her childhood, and found apartment 212. The door looked heavy, its white paint chipped. She knocked and glanced at Taylor’s challenging look.

“I’ll tell you everything soon,” she promised, “but it’s pointless if he⁠—”

The door opened with a loud screech and a squall of warmth, as if the heater inside was broken and spewing fire and cigar smoke.

Peter was barefoot. He wore loose jeans and a white t-shirt. At eighty years of age, he was still ruggedly handsome, a Robert Redford look-alike, and he had retained most of his hair. Instead of gold, it was now dusted with silver, and it grew past his ears. He examined Linnea, up and down, ratcheting up her pulse and freezing her voice. He squinted, clearly not registering anything familiar. “Sure you were buzzing the right person?”

Relief nearly floored Linnea. “I’m so sorry to bother you, Mr. Johansson. I only need a minute of your time.”

Peter looked past her shoulder to Taylor.

Linnea followed his gaze. “My son. He can wait out here. I need to speak with you alone.”

Peter sized them up. “Jehovah’s Witnesses?”

“No,” answered Linnea and Taylor in tandem.

His gaze drew a slow, scrutinizing circle around Linnea’s face, long enough for her to fear he’d slam the door on them, but his posture relaxed, and he gestured inside. “By all means.”

Stunned initially at Peter’s indifference, Linnea summoned strength to press by him, entering before he changed his mind.

“Sure you don’t want to barge in, too?” he asked Taylor.

“Following orders,” he replied, “but leave the door unlocked.”