PART 1 — NINE IN THE MORNING

“It’s nine in the morning and you’re still lying around like a useless old man!

My clients are about to arrive, and this room smells like a butcher shop!”

I opened my eyes just as Sabrina threw an entire glass of ice-cold water directly into my face.

For several seconds, I did not understand what had happened.

Water ran through my gray hair.

Down my neck.

Across the pillow.

Onto the hardwood floor.

My name is Thomas Barrett.

I was sixty-eight years old.

And that morning, I had gotten home shortly after five after spending almost twelve hours at the cold-storage facility of my company, Barrett Premium Meats.

For nearly thirty years, I had supplied restaurants across the Minneapolis metro.

Small family grills.

Hotel kitchens.

Independent steakhouses.

High-end restaurants in Edina, Wayzata, and downtown Minneapolis.

I still worked night shifts occasionally.

Not because I needed to.