Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91504 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“Umm… sure.” I stepped into the hall and pulled the door closed behind me. Folding my arms across my chest, I nodded. “What can I help you with?”
Detective Green pulled a small notebook and pen from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “We have some questions about Connor’s injury. The one he sustained on the ice a few months back.”
“Okay…”
“It happened on February first, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And how was his recovery going?”
“Slow, but as expected. Connor had started physical therapy about three weeks before…” It felt like I got sucker punched in the gut, and I had to take a moment. “Before the accident.”
“And prior to physical therapy? He was seeing a Dr. Martin at the West Side Pain Management Clinic, is that correct?”
I blinked a few times. Detective Green had said he had questions, but why was he asking them if he already knew the answers? It caught me off guard and gave me an uneasy feeling. “Yes, he went there for about four weeks after his surgery.”
“Was Mr. Fitzgerald drinking the night of the accident? When he was with you, I mean?”
I shook my head. “He hadn’t had anything to drink before he left here.”
“And you had an argument of some sort that evening?”
My brows furrowed. “How did you know that?”
“You mentioned it at the hospital, on the night of the accident.”
“Oh.” I forced a smile. “Sorry. The last few days have pretty much been a blur.”
“That’s understandable.” He nodded. “Can I ask what the argument was about?”
My eyes welled up, remembering the trivial thing that had set off a series of events that would ruin so many lives. “Garbage. I gave him a hard time because when I got home from work, the garbage in the kitchen was overflowing.”
He nodded again. “Getting back to the pain clinic, Dr. Martin prescribed your husband a painkiller, is that right?”
“Yes. Oxycodone.”
“And when did Dr. Martin stop prescribing those?”
“I’m not sure of the exact date. But Connor filled the last bottle the day before he started physical therapy.”
Detective Green pointed at me with his pen. “And that’s when you started writing the prescriptions for your husband? After Dr. Martin stopped writing them?”
My heart skipped a beat. “What? I didn’t write Connor any prescriptions.”
“You didn’t write Mr. Fitzgerald any prescriptions for oxycodone?”
“Of course not.” My throat threatened to seal up around my words. “Never.”
The detectives looked at each other.
“Maybe there’s a mistake in the information we were given,” Detective Owens said. It was the first time he’d spoken.
I looked between the two men, trying to make sense of it. “There must be.”
“Dr. McCall, one more thing,” Detective Green said. “When I go to the doctor, they don’t give me a paper prescription anymore. They send it in electronically. So why do doctors even have the old-school script pads these days?”
“For when a patient travels out of state. Each state utilizes their own electronic system. It’s mandatory to use New York’s system, except in certain exceptions like when a script is filled in another state.”
“And your husband still traveled with his team after his injuries, correct?”
“Yes.”
“So your paper scripts being filled when he was out of town for a game, those wouldn’t be tracked too easily, then?”
“I would imagine not, but again, I didn’t write Connor any prescriptions.”
Detective Green closed his little notebook. “We’ll look into it. Thank you for your time, Dr. McCall. Again, we’re sorry to have taken you away from your company.”
Back inside the apartment, I went straight to our home office. Connor and I shared it, but he hardly ever used it except for the occasional call with his agent. My heart pounded as I took a seat and looked down at the drawer where I kept my spare prescription pads. There was only one left at home since I’d taken one to the office to write Mr. Mankin’s prescription when I ran out there. Part of me didn’t want to open the drawer. Didn’t want to find out. Though deep down I already knew, didn’t I?
Squeezing my eyes shut, I reached for the handle.
What was it that the priest had said today?
“The Lord is gracious and righteous; our God is full of compassion.”
Please, God, I could use a morsel of that compassion right now. Let it be there. Let me have this one thing.
I took a deep breath and opened the drawer.
My pounding heart came to an abrupt halt.
Empty.
CHAPTER 12 Now
Nothing is right.
I rearrange a series of pots holding succulents on the windowsill. Lift the blinds so the cheery outside sun can come in. When I turn back, I see you, waiting for me on my desk—the same desk you helped me move in here, three hundred pounds of solid walnut. The image is so real, I feel like it can’t possibly be my imagination. You smile back at me, all teeth and squinty eyes and the scar on your eyebrow from when the puck—I blink and then you’re gone. Just like that. I shake my head and force myself back to cleaning.