Chapter 3 - The Woman Who Wandered Away
I spent four days in a Bozeman hospital.
Concussion.
Six stitches.
A badly bruised shoulder and hip.
Mild hypothermia.
No new stroke.
No fracture.
I was lucky.
I disliked that word.
Luck makes it sound as though absence of catastrophe erases intent.
Still, medically, I had been fortunate.
Detective Mara Sloan came the first afternoon.
Forty six.
Sheriff’s major crimes investigator.
She listened more than she spoke.
Ruth sat beside me.
Ruth had represented me for eighteen years and had the specific talent of making even hospital chairs look as though they had been summoned to court.
The pendant recording was not simply emailed around.
Ruth preserved the original.
A forensic technician created copies.
Access logs were recorded.
The emergency upload had already placed a server copy beyond anyone’s reach.
Detective Sloan listened with headphones.
Grant’s voice.
“Sign Blackridge over right now.”
Celia.
“You’re penniless, Mother. Consider this your early grave.”
My refusal.
The van door.
Wind.
Impact.
Then my voice in mud.
Then Marcus.
Hearing it outside my own body was worse than memory.
Sloan paused.
“Your children know you survived?”
“I assume.”
“They reported you missing.”
I stared.
“What?”
“Celia called Helena police at nine this morning. Said you became agitated during a drive, demanded they pull over at a rest area, then wandered off.”
I laughed.
Pain shot through my stitches.
Ruth swore under breath.
“What rest area?”
Sloan named a mile marker eight miles south of where I was found.
“Grant gave same general account.”
“Owen?”
“Has not given formal statement.”
Interesting.
“They said they searched?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“About an hour.”
“They threw me from moving van.”
“Yes.”
“They knew exactly where.”
“Yes.”
Sloan continued.
“Celia says you’ve experienced cognitive decline since stroke.”
There.
I looked at Ruth.
“We expected that.”
Three weeks earlier my neurologist had documented intact cognition after Grant tried to persuade my bank that I needed “family assistance.”
The bank compliance officer called me privately.
Ruth insisted I undergo neuropsychological evaluation and update durable documents.
Sloan reviewed.
“No dementia.”
“No.”
“Executive function?”
“Normal for age.”
“Memory?”
“Normal.”
“Physical deficits?”
“Left leg and arm weakness, fatigue.”
Sloan nodded.
“Good foresight.”
“Good banker,” Ruth corrected.
“Fair.”
Then Sloan asked:
“Blackridge. What is it worth?”
Ruth leaned forward.
“We will provide whatever is relevant to motive.”
“It is relevant now.”
I answered.
“Potentially a great deal.”
“How much is a great deal?”
I hesitated.
Not because I did not trust police.
Because the number was the reason we were here.
“High case confidential valuation of rights and development option is approximately one point zero eight billion dollars.”
Silence.
Sloan leaned back.
“Cash?”
“No.”
“Proven mine?”
“No.”
“Explain.”
“Exploration asset. Geological risk. Permitting. Development capital. High case projection, not liquid value.”
“But your children knew the number.”
“Somehow.”
“Who had report?”
“Me. Ruth. Two geologists. One mining finance adviser.”
“Your children?”
“No.”
Sloan looked at Ruth.
“So either leak or theft.”
“Yes.”
That became central.
The full valuation had been seen by only five people.
Yet my children suddenly demanded Blackridge three weeks after report.
Someone had told them.
Or one of them had taken it.
Sloan asked:
“Do you think they intended you to die?”
My mouth went dry.
“Their words say enough for me.”
“For court, I need more than feelings.”
“I know.”
“Did they slow down?”
“Some.”
“Did they return?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did anyone call emergency services?”
“No.”
“Did they have your phone?”
“Yes. Celia took my purse before we left and said she didn’t want me distracted.”
Ruth looked at me.
“You did not tell me that.”
“I forgot.”
That sentence frightened me.
I hated forgetting.
Sloan noticed.
“Head injury.”
I nodded.
Then:
“Detective, I need you to understand something. They will use every missing detail as proof my stroke damaged my mind.”
“Then let them.”
I stared.
She continued.
May you like
“The recording doesn’t have a stroke.”
That was the first time someone gave me permission not to prove my sharpness every minute.
