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“After dinner.”
“Great! When’s the mac and cheese going to be ready?”
“Forty minutes. Go take out the trash, wash up, set the table.”
Chase ran out of the room. He didn’t do things slow. He was a good kid—Grant knew it. He’d seen some of his clients’ kids who were constant fuck-ups. He hoped, prayed, that Chase never went down the wrong path. He knew that even good parents could raise a rotten child.
Fortunately, though he and Regan had some problems in their marriage, they agreed about how to raise Chase. Good school, be attentive, follow up with teachers, homework, grades. Encourage outside activities, like baseball, which Chase loved. Know who his friends were, friends’ parents. Keep an eye on him, but give him room to be a kid.
The video games were a bit of a sticking point—Chase loved them almost as much as he loved baseball. They agreed no games during the week—even in summer—but unlimited hours on the weekends, as long as he didn’t let his responsibilities slide. Fortunately, they kept busy enough on the weekends—camping, baseball, day trips, sailing—that Chase only spent a few hours playing whatever new game struck his fancy.
Balance, Grant thought. He wished Regan would find more balance in their relationship. It had just become so hard to talk to her, because she didn’t understand what he wanted, what he needed from her...and he had a hard time explaining. Anytime he had a problem and just wanted to talk, she would lay out his options. He didn’t want another colleague; he wanted someone tolisten. Commiserate. Be there for him as a wife, lover, friend.
He rubbed his eyes, wrapped up the memo he’d written, sent it to Jeff to proofread and edit, then shut down the computer. Enough work. Time to spend the evening with his son.
After they cleaned up from dinner, they settled in to the family room in the back of the house. It was a large room with a pool table, comfortable sofas, and a large screen television that Chase loved playing his games on. Tall windows looked out onto their deck and backyard, which was thick with trees around a wide expanse of grass. Grant wanted to put in a pool; Regan thought that was impractical. Sometimes, he just wanted her to be a little less practical and a little more fun.
It was nine and they’d been playing for an hour—Chase kept beating him—when his phone buzzed. He looked down and frowned. Dammit.
“What’s wrong?” Chase asked.
“Your mom is going to be later than she thought. They’re still two hours out of Cumberland.”
“What’d the guy do?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Is it the guy who killed his wife or is it the pedophile that mom’s been tracking for three months?”
Grant didn’t like that Chase was so interested in Regan’s job, or that he even knew what a pedophile was. He had agreed with Regan’s advice that they shelter Chase until he started asking questions, then to answer honestly, with age-appropriate answers. He’d started asking questions early, and Regan answered them. Sometimes Grant thought she was too blunt and straightforward, but Chase seemed to respond better to a direct approach.
Grant was always uncomfortable with these discussions. Things had been...tense...between him and Regan for the last year. It wasn’t the first time. Maybe going back to the marriage counselor was the answer. It had worked before, it might work again. Or maybe it was just him, maybe he was too fucking needy, wanting more of Regan’s affection. She just wasn’t an emotionally demonstrative woman, and it had been grating on him more now than when they first married.
“Dad?” Chase pushed. “Is something else wrong?”
He shook his head. “No, nothing, kiddo. Your mom is transporting the guy who killed his wife. He fled to avoid arrest, the marshals caught up to him in Albany, and she’s bringing him back.”
“Okay,” Chase said. “Another game?”
“Sure. How about if I make some popcorn?” He started to get up off the couch.
“I’ll do it,” Chase said, jumping up.
Everything happened so fast, but Grant remembered it in slow motion.
The breaking of glass—a cracking sound. Chase falling to the floor. Grant thought he’d tripped.
“Chase? You okay?”
At first Grant didn’t see the blood. Chase was wearing a red Nationals T-shirt withWorld Series Champsin bold white letters across the front. Then the letters started bleeding red. Blending with the shirt. Darker red, spreading, and Grant stared. His head was ringing and he could have stared at his son for one second or one hour, he didn’t know. It was as if time stopped. That minute, that moment, lasted for eternity and disappeared too fast.
“Chase? Chase!” He collapsed to the floor, grabbed his son’s body. Looked in his face, tried to figure out what was going on. He didn’t immediately think that his son had been shot. He didn’t immediately realize what had happened.
He felt the blood. On his chest. On his back as the bullet had ripped through his son’s skinny body. And Chase’s eyes. His green eyes, just like Regan’s, open. Unseeing.
Grant screamed. Pain and rage and grief; he howled like an animal. He held his son’s body close. Held him as every cell in his body ached in an unbearable pain as the truth hit him. That his son was dead. That his son wasdeadin his arms. He’d never hear his voice, his laugh, see his smile,tell him to slow down as he ran up the stairs, or high-five him after a ball game.
Chase was not just gone, he was dead.
