He tapped his knuckles on the counter and frowned. Okay, maybe it had changed before that.

Caroline always used to tell him to give her time. When he would want to jump in and pester Bea with questions—solve her problems—Caroline would pat his shoulder with a knowing smile. “Give her time.”

After Caroline died, he’d given Bea nothing but time. Time and space. More than any teenage girl who’d just lost her mother could ever need.

What a mistake.

He slapped his phone against the palm of his hand. Bea and Jeremy would be back soon, so he should head to his room before calling his dad. If Bea were to come home and hear him discussing her grandmother’s condition, it would only upset her more, and she was plenty upset with him already. He opened his bedroom door and stepped in, glowering as water seeped through his sock. He eyed the carpet. Another puddle. What on earth was going on in here?

He’d inspected the attic and found no leaks. He’d felt around the carpet in other areas, even under his bed, and found no dampness there. Only by the door. He’d blame Steve, but he never left his door open. Ever. And cats couldn’t turn doorknobs, last time he checked.

It was an infuriating mystery but one that would have to wait.

Since cell service at his parents’ place was unreliable, he dialed their landline. His father answered right away, his voice low.

“Mitch?”

“Yeah, Dad. It’s me. How’s Mom this morning?”

“I don’t know. Kind of in a daze.”

“Is she mad?”

“Worried, I think.”

Mitch mulled that over. Was she worried about what might happen to her? What further testing might reveal?

“I’m worried, too,” Rand continued. “The doctor’s talk about that hereditary stuff’s got me thinking about you. And Bea.”

Mitch furrowed his brow. “And Bea’s baby.”

“What?”

“Bea’s expecting. I found out last night.”

“Well, don’t that beat all. What if—”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Mitch rubbed the space between his eyes. “The doctor said the kind of Alzheimer’s that can be passed down through genes is very rare. The familial early-onset kind.”

“And isn’t it early?” The fear in his father’s voice was unmistakable and unsettling.

Mitch sat on the bed. Dr. Wilson had explained that anyone developing Alzheimer’s-like symptoms while under the age of sixty-five could potentially be considered for the early-onset variety, but he had encouraged them not to jump to any conclusions. In fact, he’d only spoken about it after Mitch pressed him about his mother’s relatively young age. The doctor had assured them there were many other steps to take before considering such a drastic diagnosis.