Page 30 of The Unraveling

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.

My heels click across the room. I snap up a framed photo. Add it to the growing pile of things that have to go. My breath comes in fast, ragged bursts, but I only have seven minutes before my first patient in a year comes into this room and sits on my teal couch to pour her heart out. It’s nerve-racking, but things will be right once I’m working again.

They have to be.

Finally, I’ve removed all signs of you—the desk itself the one exception.

Four minutes.

I shove the box in the corner, behind the ficus that somehow survived my absence. Gerry, my temporary replacement, was able to keep it alive.

Unlike my practice.

No, my practice is not dead, just… waning. I exhale as the outer door squeaks open and closes with a thud. My assistant Sarah’s muffled voice greets my patient—a patient I’ve, thankfully, treated for years. One of the early ones. One of the handful who’ve stuck by me.

I sink into my desk chair. Most who remain probably don’t know what happened—the patients, I mean. I somehow managed to keep my face out of the papers and off the news. I shielded my face going in and out of my apartment, in and out of the services. It helped that photos of famous hockey players walking into a funeral parlor probably fetched more money than the partially covered face of a woman the media had never noticed before. My name made it into stories, but not the name my patients know me by. I’ve always practiced using my maiden name, something you weren’t fond of, but now I’m glad I did. It’s been my safety net.

I hear Sarah say something about new insurance and paperwork, and I close my eyes, grateful for a few minutes more. It feels like I’ve been waiting for this day for months, wearing out the soles of my shoes to pass the time until I could come back and have purpose in my life. But now that it’s here, what if I can’t do this anymore?

What if, after all that’s happened, I’m incapable of making a difference?

I pull out my phone to distract myself, my finger gliding automatically to my email, where a confirmation awaits:

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