She’d had a comfortable childhood. Parents who sometimes argued but who’d loved each other. Siblings who got along. They weren’t rich, but they never wanted for anything. Her dad was a deputy, then became sheriff; her mother was a nurse. They were comfortable, not fancy. The tragedy of her mother’s cancer when Regan was in high school had left a sorrowful mark on an otherwise idyllic, middle-class upbringing.
If anything, her family name demanded community service. No sitting around binge-watching TV. If you slept past six, you had better be sick. Chores were done without expectation of an allowance. Regan grew up believing—still believed—that you did what was necessary in the house because you were part of the family.
Her granddad, who’d patrolled the Kaibab National Forest until he was forced into retirement—and died only months later—had often said, “God made us stewards of the earth, which means more than taking care of what’s yours. Give more than you expect to receive, and be thankful for every day you draw breath in our beautiful country.”
She knew from her dad that her granddad wasn’t the easiest man to live with, though she’d always enjoyed spending time with him. He’d expected a lot from his three boys but doted on his grandchildren to the point of spoiling them. Her dad, John, and her uncle Theo—named after her granddad’s idol, Theodore Roosevelt—were close, and both had done well in life. Back in the early eighties, on the day he turned eighteen years old, her uncle George had moved to Los Angeles, got involved with drugs, and was in and out of jail for stupid crap. If her dad had a blind spot, it was his little brother. Yet George never came home. Maybe he hadn’t hit rock bottom. Maybe he hadn’t lost all hope.
For Regan, when her life was destroyed, there was no place she wanted to be except home. Her dad had welcomed her with open arms and without question. Even though they hadn’t always seen eye to eye, her dad loved her unconditionally; he was her rock. He grieved, too, but she refused to talk to anyone about her son, Chase, because there was nothing to say.
Chase was dead.
He would never see his eleventh birthday.
In three weeks her son should have been celebrating with family and friends, eating his favorite ice-cream cake and going to the opening game of the Washington Nationals, his favorite baseball team, as he’d done every year since he was five. Even if opening day didn’t fall on his actual birthday, it was the only thing he wanted to do. It had become a tradition.
She pushed the looming day firmly to the back of her mind. She could not think about everything she had lost. Not now.
When she walked into the house, she found a note from her dad that said he’d left to help a neighbor with their well and wouldn’t be home for dinner. She didn’t particularly like to cook, so she made herself a cold roast-beef sandwich with extra horseradish and sat down in the breakfast nook that her dad and brother had expanded to include not only more space but a window seat that Regan’s little sister used to spend hours reading in. They rarely ate in the dining room, only used it for their large Thanksgiving gathering.
The kitchen bled into the great room. This grand, open space was where she and her siblings spent most of their time growing up. The worn sectional sofa had since been replaced by two leather couches, but Dad had reupholstered his favorite chair and still sat in it every night. The small television they rarely watched had been replaced with a bigger wall-mounted model after John had retired. He only watched sports and local news, though on occasion Regan could entice him to watch a classic Western.
There was comfort here. Family pictures taken over the years, photos of beloved pets—the golden retriever they’d had during most of Regan’s childhood, the yellow Lab who’d joined the family her senior year. Photos of her dad’s horses, which he’d sold to a neighbor after Bri left home because he didn’t have the time to care for them. She missed horseback riding with her sister and dad—it was one thing she’d enjoyed that her brothers hadn’t.
She’d noticed as soon as she moved back home last fall that her dad had taken down her wedding picture. She didn’t know if he removed it months ago when she told him she and Grant were getting a divorce, or when she told him that she’d resigned from the US Marshals Service and asked if she could come home until she figured out what to do.
There were, of course, many pictures of Chase, John’s first grandchild, along with photos of JT’s two young girls. A recent picture of her and Chase caught her eye. Even among the hundreds of photographs mounted on the great-room walls, her eye always gravitated to it. They’d come to visit her dad the Christmas break before Chase was killed. They’d gone skiing at the Snowbowl atop the San Francisco peaks. Chase’s face was red from the cold and exertion, but his green eyes lit up with joy. She was grinning, and now remembered how free she’d felt that week. How happy she’d been to share so much with her boy. Like her, he loved the outdoors. He took to skiing like a fish to water, and she’d been so proud of how, when he fell down, he got right back up.
Chase was her kid, through and through. She’d never settled for failure. She worked at something until she mastered it. Chase did the same.
Today, she didn’t know how to get back up.
She averted her eyes for fear of being lost in the past. Finished her sandwich and washed her plate. She then sat in the living room and pulled out her phone to listen to Lucas Vega’s podcast.
It would keep her mind off—well, everything, for an hour or two.
Before she hit Play, her dad walked in.
“I brought you peach cobbler,” he said. “Jeff insisted.”
“I’ll eat it later.”
“You should have joined us. Jeff cooks better than anyone in our family.”
“I don’t know about that. You can barbecue a mean steak, Dad. And your venison stew is the bomb.”