The Sorority Murder (Regan Merritt, #1)(49)

She stood in the entry, feeling helpless and grieving more than she could bear.

“Get out,” Grant said. “I can’t look at you.”

She turned and walked out. Their marriage was over.

Regan showered, then sat down at her dad’s computer. It was now after six thirty, and she texted her dad, concerned about his whereabouts. She shouldn’t be. Even though he was retired, he was a big boy with a lot of friends and things to do.

He responded almost immediately.

Home by seven. La Fonda tonight?
She sent him a thumbs-up emoji: it was her favorite Mexican food restaurant, and she could use a margarita. Or three. She’d make her dad drive so she could down a few drinks.

She sent an email to Beth that the divorce papers were signed and out in tomorrow’s mail. She checked her emails, ignoring most.

Her old boss, Tommy Granger, had emailed her twice, on Monday and again this morning. She’d been avoiding his messages. She really didn’t want to talk to anyone from her previous life.

Especially Tommy.

He was angry with her because she let her sabbatical lapse without applying for an extension. The sabbatical was part of her benefits: she received three paid months off for every five years of service. She’d never taken her first sabbatical, and they could be rolled over once. She didn’t argue with him when he put her in for a six-month sabbatical, even though she’d told him she wasn’t coming back.

He kept pushing, and while she respected her boss, she wished he would drop it.

His email this morning was clear.

Regan:
You won’t answer your phone. You don’t respond to your emails. I haven’t seen you since you left Virginia. I feel your pain. I wish I could take it away from you, that I could go back in time and protect Chase. I loved that kid, but that is nothing compared to you. Losing a child is the worst thing a parent can suffer. I never expected you to bounce back. That’s why I insisted on the sabbatical.
You are one of the best marshals our service has to offer. You are dedicated, well-trained, experienced, and your instincts are better than anyone I have ever worked with. I want you back. I want you here, in Virginia, but I get that you can’t be here. For a lot of reasons. I respect that. Hell, I respect you. And more. You know it.
But don’t leave the service. I just got the message that you didn’t fill out your returning paperwork. I got you an extension, but they have to receive it by the close of business Friday. Then a week at FLET-C to requalify with your weapons and take your psych test. I know neither will be difficult for you.
I can get you into any office you want. Any division. If you want to stay in Arizona, there’s a place for you there. I know the director: he would be over the moon to have you. Or Texas. Florida. California. If you want the wide-open plains of middle America, I can make that happen. Anywhere.
You’re too good to walk away.
Please call me. I miss you.
Tommy
Dammit. She didn’t want to call him. For lots of reasons, but mostly because he was the only person on earth who might be able to talk her into going back to the Marshals.

She couldn’t go back.

It was both complex and simple. She grieved for her son. Her focus wasn’t one hundred percent on the job after Chase was killed, and she didn’t know that it could be. A marshal needed to be completely clearheaded. They couldn’t risk a mistake when other people’s lives were on the line. She felt as if she’d been split in two, and without her sharpness, without being whole, she wouldn’t survive. She didn’t want to die on the job. Marshals took daily risks. That’s what they signed up for. But Regan knew herself too well—without her family, without a foundation, with her grief clawing at her soul, she would make mistakes, possibly putting other people’s lives at risk.

She wasn’t going to do it.

But mostly, her heart wasn’t in it. She’d once loved her job more than anything except her son. Yes, she loved her job more than her husband. She and Grant had had many rough patches. They’d even separated for six months. Saw a counselor. Got back together to give Chase a foundation because their love for him was the single thing that united them. And for a while, things were even better than before. They took the time to be together, both with Chase and alone. They went away, just the two of them, and talked about having another child. That was when Chase was five. But it was talk, and they both loved Chase and loved their jobs, and time slipped away.

But the last year of their marriage, before Chase died, things weren’t as they had been. Regan didn’t notice because she was busy, between her job and her son. It was like time sped up and suddenly Grant was distant, argumentative, working longer-than-usual hours. She thought he was having an affair, confronted him. She remembered exactly what she said and how she said it. Unemotional. Cold.

“If you want out of this marriage, just tell me.”

He stared at her. “I’m not fucking around, Regan. Work is just overwhelming right now, and you’re never around to talk about anything. Not everyone is a cool cucumber like you.”

It was the way he said it, as if he resented her ability to be calm in the face of chaos. And he’d hit on the reason they had gone to counseling in the first place, five years before: because they were both so busy they didn’t talk.

She believed he was faithful, but they still didn’t talk, and when she pushed he pushed back. And she buried it. She compartmentalized her marriage so she could do her job.