Page 16 of Not a Word

He cared about those less fortunate than himself, and there were times when it was hard to find someone who fell into that category. But once when I was with him in the heart of the city, he struck up a conversation with a homeless guy, his hand outstretched looking for change. I kept on walking, because I’m the kind of asshole who often pretends those people are invisible. When Holden caught up to me, I noticed he was no longer wearing his jacket, and I inquired.

“He was cold,” Holden said.

Like our father, Holden had always taken an interest in Gage, right from the time he was a baby. He reveled in his role as uncle. And Gage loved him in return, although if I’m being honest, we didn’t encourage the relationship, and I felt my own guilt over that. You didn’t want your son hanging around with an addict—current or recovering—even if he was the kid’s uncle. It had been a source of friction with Gage, who accused Diana and me of not being supportive, that Holden couldn’t help being the way he was, and we should be ashamed for not understanding that.

That stung. The truth has a way of doing that.

Gage saw in Holden the qualities we sometimes overlooked. That concern for people who were down and out. An interest in the broader world when he wasn’t under the influence. When Gage, an aspiring idealist, learned Holden was taking part in a rally to fight a Yorkton Hill decision to let a developer build on parkland, Gage not only wanted to join him, he questioned why we weren’t coming too.

“You think he’s a bad influence,” Gage once said to us, “but he’s made me care about things that matter.”

If only Holden could be that Holden all the time.

For all those reasons and more, I thought Mom might be headed his way. But it was worth checking first to see if she’d gone home. I took from my pocket the card that Detective McCabe had given me. I entered the number of her cell.

“McCabe,” she said upon answering.

“It’s Reece Chartwell.”

“Who said you could leave? Where are you?”

“I found out something.”

“I’ve got two officers I’d like to write up because you—”

“My mother’s alive.”

I guess I was expecting some sign she was shocked. But instead, she said, in a calm voice, “I know. How is it you know?”

I wanted to ask her the same thing but decided to answer her first. “She phoned me, said she’d been trying to reach Dad and couldn’t. How’d you find out?”

“Get back here.”

Questions worked one way with her. “Has my mom shown up there?”

“No.”

“I told her I’d pick her up—she was at a lunch with friends—but she left before I got there. Thought she might have gone back to the house.”

“No,” McCabe said again. Pissed. “I want you here. Now.” Her tone softened. “Look, Mr. Chartwell, I know this is all a shock, that maybe you think you have more important things to do, but your presence here is needed.”

“Soon,” I said. “If she shows, call me.” She didn’t need to ask my number. I was now in her call history.

“Mr. Chartwell, I’m serious. Get back—”

I ended the call.

Holden lived on Bakerton Street, in one of Yorkton Hill’s less flashy neighborhoods in the west end. Yorkton Hill had its reputation as one of the country’s wealthier towns, but not everyone lived in a house like my parents’. There were still plenty of people here who didn’t commute into the city on a daily basis, people who lived and worked right here, many of them in older parts of town that hadn’t yet been remade into fancy enclaves where every house came with a Wolf stove and a Sub-Zero fridge. That’s where Holden lived, in a simple, one-story, two-bedroom home that, if it could speak, wouldn’t have said no to a new roof and a fresh coat of paint. He rented, paying his landlord with the occasional odd jobs he got. Last I’d heard, he was helping out a guy who put up drywall. You gave Holden a task, he could do it, so long as he wasn’t on one of his downswings.

While Holden’s part of town had a different feel than ours, which was more of a transition neighborhood, it wasn’t far. A five-minute drive, an hour’s walk. I parked on the street when I saw his old blue Honda CR-V sitting beside the house and walked slowly to the front door. As I knocked, I thought I heard a banging noise, like someone slamming the back door of the place. I took a few steps to peer around the corner to see whether my brother had seen me coming and decided he didn’t want to talk to me, but if he’d taken a runner, I didn’t see him.

Before I could get back to the front door, it opened.

“Hey, little brother,” Holden said dreamily. Dressed as always in faded jeans and a T-shirt, this one bearing a map of Canada with the words “Not For Sale.” He was just under six feet, and thin enough that even small sizes seemed to hang off him. His arms were ropy and his hair brush cut short.

I knew instantly he was high. The euphoric tone, the dilated pupils. I felt a wave of disappointment wash over me. Here we were again. When things went south, I usually heard from one of my parents, asking if I’d seen him lately, had I noticed any changes in his behavior. The fact that they’d not been in touch suggested Holden’s slide was recent.

“Hey,” I said. “How’s it going?”