Page 195 of Between Regrets and Promises

But today was an act that doesn’t hit close to home, rather it hits right in the gut. As I sit in an office and peruse the case files, I’m disgusted by how much politics and our government control the healthcare system. It’s one of the many reasons my father and I butt heads so much. Our views differ greatly, and nothing he says will ever convince me that money and power are worth more than a human life.

An elderly man in his seventies shot his wife of forty-eight years and then called 911 to let them know he was going to shoot himself. He said she was sick, and they couldn’t afford her prescriptions or hospital bills. The gentleman also had his fair share of health concerns, and the financial burdenwas too heavy for him to carry. He was his wife’s caretaker, and somehow, he got it into his head that killing her and then himself was the best solution.

Sadly, his story is only one of many.

Without their medications, they would’ve eventually died, but probably while alone and sedated in a hospital bed. At least this way, he could make their own fate without suffering. I don’t get how our own system could fail so many people, and on some level, I understand this man’s thought process as painful as it is to admit.

“The letters are the saddest shit I’ve ever read,” my colleague Jada says as we file. “And I’ve seen some sad shit.”

Jada is one of my mentors, and I admire her greatly. She’s in her forties and tells it like it is, something I also appreciate. There’s never any guessing with her.

“You can tell his hand was shaking when he wrote some of them,” I say, looking over the photographs we took. “As if he was questioning his decision for a bit but then found the strength somehow not to change his mind.”

“In the last few notes, his writing gets sloppier as if he had his mind set and just wanted it to be over.” Jada frowns, looking over the pictures. “It’s a tragedy.”

Nodding, I agree. Filing is grunt work, but I also get more responsibility now. Some days, I’m grateful for it, and other days, I’d rather not have to think about the hardships of life that bring someone to go this route.

Ever since revealing my past to Sophie and being in the field at work, Emma’s been on my mind more than usual. For years, I’ve blocked it out, not wanting the memories to surface. However, now I like thinking about her—when she was happy—whenwewere happy. Sometimes, it seems like a lifetime ago, and other times, I remember it like it was yesterday.

Sophie can tell when I’m having one of those days. She doesn’t push or force me to talk about it. Rather, she’ll lay with me and let me hold her. Nothing will ever convince me that Emma’s death wasn’t my fault. I failed to react to the signs. Even if she’d cried wolf so many times before, I should’ve known better than to leave her alone. She’d been going to therapy and group sessions, but she was damn good at putting on an act when she wanted to. That much I know, and she proved it time and again.

“What’re you thinking?” Jada’s voice has me blinking away my thoughts.

Clearing my throat, I set the files down on the table. “I was wondering if there had been warning signs. If they’d called anyone to tell them they loved them or sold off any of their items. The typical things you see in planned suicides like this.”

“According to Briggs…” She grabs one of the files from the pile and flips through a few pages. “He spoke with the daughter, and she seemed distraught but also not shocked. She’d been surprised he had a gun, but not that the father did it.”

I furrow my brows. “I wonder why that is. Why her father being the killer wouldn’t surprise her?”

“That’s not our job, Holt,” Jada warns as she always does. I want to dig into the nitty-gritty details, but our jobs are to process the scenes, establish the murder weapon, and help figure out thewho. All the other stuff is unnecessary to solve the case. Even if it could help a family member find closure to know those details or just so I can sleep at night, it’s not our responsibility.

“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble.

“So how’s that girlfriend of yours doing?” she asks, handing me the files so I can put them in the proper box.

“Amazing.” I smile thinking about Sophie. “Went to her fall concert last week and watching her play is always incredible.She’s so damn talented and special. Sometimes, it’s hard to believe she picked me.”

Jada gives me a pointed look and opens her mouth, probably to yell at me for putting myself down, but she must think better of it and doesn’t say a word.

A minute later, she asks, “Has Daddy Dearest met her yet?”

“Only a couple of brief times,” I tell her. “The most recent time, he showed up uninvited. They exchanged greetings, but that was about it.”

“And what about Serena?” She smirks, resting her hand on her hip. “Has she met Sophie?”

“A few times.” I snort but don’t get into that whole story of the two of them. “Why are you so curious, anyway? You want an invite or something?”

“Well, you talk about her so damn much, I practically know her. Plus, we spend a lot of time together at work, so maybe she wants to know who you’re spending your days with?”

“I purposely don’t talk about work much. Being home is my safe zone,” I explain. “Sophie listens when I need to vent, but otherwise, if I don’t bring it up, she doesn’t either.”

“From what you’ve told me, both of you have gone through some tough shit. Remember not to hold your feelings in, even if it’s hard to talk about. Trust me, I’m on my third marriage.”

I chuckle, shaking my head when she smirks at her own dig. “Third time’s the charm, huh?”

“Lord, I hope so. I’ve applied for marriage licenses and changed my last name so many times, the workers in the clerk’s office know me personally.” Her smirk widens.

“They probably run away screaming when they see you, knowing all the paperwork you’re about to make them file,” I tease, loading up the evidence box and putting the lid on top.

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