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.