Chapter 11 Then

The Lord is gracious and righteous; our God is full of compassion."

I stared at the priest, hanging on to the words of Psalm 116, even though he'd moved on to swinging a chain with an ornate censer around the casket, blessing it with incense.

The Lord is gracious and righteous? The little girl was only five years old.

Full of compassion? For whom, exactly? For my husband? Who doesn't deserve it?

I should've fought Connor's mother harder to not have this big funeral service. It was disrespectful to the family he'd devastated. I wasn't even sure why so many people showed up—teammates, coaches, friends, family—after the news broke last night with the final toxicology reports. My husband had been driving under the influence. I figured his friends would scatter like ants to footsteps, but no such luck. The church was full. Every last row, and some standing.

I just wanted to be alone.

To cry.

To scream.

To bounce back and forth between hating you for what you'd done and hating myself for not finding a way to stop you.

I knew you were in a bad place.

I knew.

This happened on my watch.

The mass finally ended. The graveside ceremony that followed was a blur. More crying. More useless words from a priest about how great God is. After it was over, the best I could do was put one foot in front of the other and walk to one of the waiting limousines. My brother, Jake, followed me.

He spoke to the driver standing outside the car as I climbed in. "Do me a favor? There's enough room in the other two cars to fit everyone else. Stand in front of this door and tell people the car is full. My sister needs a break." He extended his hand, and I knew without a shadow of a doubt there was a bill tucked into his palm. That was my brother—tip big and make it happen. He'd inherited the move from our father. Our father. Thinking of him made my heart heavy. It was the first time in my life I was glad both my parents were gone. They didn't have to be publicly disgraced by what my husband had done. What I could've stopped.

Jake climbed inside the car and pulled the door closed behind him.

He unbuttoned his suit jacket as he took the seat across from me. "You looked like you were about done."

I smiled sadly. "I was done before I left the house this morning."

"I sat in that church today trying to think of something to say to you to make you feel better, but the only thing I could think of was that Aunt Francine looked really surprised to see me."

"Why would she be surprised to see you?"

Jake used his fingers to pull both his eyebrows into Spock-like arches. "What the fuck did she do to her face?"

I covered my mouth and laughed for the first time in days. "Oh my. She does look like that. Bad Botox injections, I guess."

Jake smiled and pointed at my face. "There she is. My little Merry Berry. I knew she was under there somewhere."

Only my brother could make me smile at a time like this. Though it didn't last long. Heaviness seeped right back in. I sighed and shook my head. "I feel like I'm in a bad dream. And I just want to wake up already."

"I can't even imagine. You two were so happy. Once, when the four of us went out to dinner, Raylene yelled at me when we got home. She was mad because I didn't look at her the way Connor looked at you."

I frowned. "Things hadn't been so great the last few months."

"Really? You could've fooled me."

Apparently, I'd been fooling everyone, myself included.

Jake leaned forward and took my hand. "Come stay with us. Raylene already made up the guest room. We don't even have to go back to your place for the stupid reception dinner. We can just tell the driver to take us straight to Connecticut."

"I wish I could. But Connor's whole family is coming over, and half his team will probably show up. I can't not be there."

"How about tomorrow? I can drive into work instead of taking the train and scoop you up after?"

"I think I want to be home for a few days alone. I think I need that time to myself."

Jake frowned but nodded. "Maybe over the weekend, then?"

"Sure. Maybe."

"Now isn't the time, but we also need to discuss some business. So even if you blow me off about coming to stay in Connecticut, which I have a feeling you will, we need to at least get together for lunch soon."

I hesitated, my mind tripping over itself, working through the haze of the grief to try to understand what he meant. "What kind of business do we need to talk about?"

"I think we should do some planning, in case you're sued by the family."

I clutched my throat, which suddenly felt tight. "I haven't even thought about a lawsuit."

"And you don't need to. That's what I'm here for."

My brother was a trust and estate lawyer at a big firm in Manhattan, but at the moment, that provided little comfort.

"When we probate the estate, there may be some assets we can shield from judgment, depending on how things are titled," he said. "So we should go over how your assets are held and all of the details of Connor's pension and life insurance."

I shook my head. "I can't think about any of that now."

"We'll see if you feel up to it in a few days. If not, we'll have you sign some documents so I can handle it all on your behalf. I want to help, Mer." He squeezed my hand and waited until I lifted my eyes to meet his. "I don't know how to make you feel better, to take away the pain you're going through. So let me at least take care of these things for you."

I took a deep breath and nodded. "Okay. Thank you."

The ride back to my apartment was quick. Since the limousines all left the cemetery at the same time, I didn't get even a moment to myself when we arrived at my building. Connor's parents and an aunt and uncle were already waiting out front, as was the catering van from the place where his mother had ordered all the food.

Over the next two hours, dozens of people came and went. One generic condolence rolled into another, and every time someone expressed how sorry they were for my loss, I felt like screaming that they should be sorry for the Wright family, not mine. Thankfully, the wine kept me from doing that. But when Connor's mother started telling stories of how her son had volunteered at a soup kitchen in college, I was grateful the door buzzed again because I had reached my limit on how much I could take.

I opened the door to find two men who looked familiar, but I couldn't place their faces. That had happened a lot today, especially since I didn't know many of the operational people from the team, and several had come by.

"Dr. McCall?"

"Yes?"

The taller of the men pointed to himself. "I'm Detective Green." He motioned to the other man. "And this is Detective Owens. We met at the hospital, the night of the accident."

Oh God. How could I have not placed the faces? These men were with me at the worst moment of my life. "Oh, right. Hello. Thank you for coming by." I thumbed behind me. "Would you… like to come in? We have plenty of food."

Detective Green glanced over my shoulder into my packed apartment before waving me off. "No, thank you. We're sorry to bother you when you have a house full of company, but we have some questions that really need to be answered." He nodded toward the hall. "Maybe you could come outside and talk to us for a few moments, so we have some privacy? We won't take too long."

"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.