The Sorority Murder (Regan Merritt, #1)(48)

But Regan was determined to find out.



Nineteen


It was after five thirty by the time Regan arrived back at her dad’s house. She tried to recall what was in the refrigerator for her to eat. She was famished.

There were packages at the front door, so her dad wasn’t home yet, which surprised her. She walked up the stairs and picked up two small boxes, both addressed to John Merritt. There was also a large manila envelope that had been sent two-day mail. For Regan.

The return address: Dyson, Brooks, & Shapiro, Attorneys-at-Law.

Regan’s lawyer was Beth Shapiro.

All thought of food left her head. She unlocked the front door, dropped the boxes on the counter, and took the envelope to her dad’s office. She sat at his desk and stared.

She knew what this was.

As soon as she signed on the dotted line, her divorce would be final.

She could wait, but why? Regan couldn’t imagine that there were any outstanding issues. Beth would have called her.

Regan opened the package, and it was as she’d expected, though she was somewhat surprised Beth hadn’t called to tell her the papers were on their way. She read the brief letter attached to the documents.

Blah blah blah.

Sign all three copies and keep one for yourself, return the other two in the postage-paid envelope to their office. Colorful arrows pointed to where she was supposed to sign. As if there was anything cheery about divorce.

Grant had already signed. Of course he had. He wanted the divorce as much as she did—maybe more—and he was local. Easy to go into the lawyer’s office to sign away the twelve years they’d shared.

Regan flipped to each arrow and scrawled her name. Took one copy and put it facedown next to her—she didn’t want to look at it—and put the other two in the designated envelope, sealed it, and walked down to the mailbox at the end of the long driveway. Their road was private, remote. Twenty minutes to campus, but it felt like they were in the middle of nowhere. Only a few other people lived in this idyllic area, and she didn’t see anyone, only a few houses set far up their own driveways, partly hidden by tall pine and juniper.

Regan retrieved that day’s mail and stuffed the envelope in the box, then walked back up the driveway.

There was nothing left between her and Grant. When Chase was gone, they both realized that their son was all that had bound them together for the last few years. Why couldn’t she have seen it before? Would it have even made a difference?

Dammit! She would have stayed married to Grant forever if it could bring Chase back to life. He shouldn’t be dead!

She walked into the house and screamed as loud as she could. All the pain, all the frustration and anger, and deep, unyielding sorrow at her life over the last eight months streaming out on a wave of sound so loud that she almost scared herself. When she was done, the silence surprised her. Her throat was raw, and she wiped away tears.

Well, damn. She wasn’t a crier. She had cried just twice after Chase was killed. The night he was killed, though those tears were constrained: she’d forced herself to cut them off even though it physically pained her.

Then, after the funeral.

Regan had just buried her baby boy. Ten years old. In his baseball uniform because he loved baseball more than anything. With his mitt and the ball he caught at a Nationals game signed by Bryce Harper. A collector’s item now because the player was no longer with the team.

She’d had dry eyes all day. Her dad, brothers, and sister wanted to come home with her, but she said no.

She regretted that.

She’d found them a weeklong rental. She should have gone with them. She knew that Grant was no longer her husband, except in name. She knew it was over, but they had just buried their boy. He had held her hand. And for a while, she thought that maybe...maybe...they would find a way to get through this.

He slammed the door. His tears were real, pain and anger rolled together. For all of Grant’s faults, he’d loved their son.

He’d once loved her.

She reached for him. Tried to push aside what he said one week ago, when Chase was shot and killed by a man who she had once apprehended.

Grant stared at her. “I told you your job was too dangerous. I thought you would be killed, and it tore me up, but I learned to live with the risk. But it was our son. Our baby boy. Chase is dead because of you.”

“That’s not true.” She didn’t know if she spoke or not.

“I can’t even look at you. I can’t—just go to your family. Leave me alone.”

“Grant, you don’t mean it.” She knew he did. She wanted to be strong; she wanted to fight, to scream, but she had nothing left inside.

“My boy. Gone.”

Grant was in pain, just like she was.

“He was my boy, too, Grant. I—I’m sorry.”

She was sorry. It wasn’t her fault, no matter what Grant said...was it? Had she missed something? Nothing made sense about the last week. Nothing made sense about Chase’s murder.

Grant stared at her, his face radiating the pain she felt inside. “I wish it had been you.”

Her shredded heart bled more. She had nothing to say as Grant twisted the final knife.

“So do I,” she said and meant it. In that moment, she wished the bullets that had ripped into her son’s body had torn her apart instead.