With every single play, I died a little more.

FOUR YEARS LATER

2015 Season

JUNE

“Rachel Frepp was the first. She died on September 28th, the last day of the 2011 season, when the Yanks lost to the Rays. A jogger found her, stabbed, early that next morning, in the alley behind her apartment. That’s how all the girls died, and they were practically carbon copies of each other. Single blondes on the Upper East Side, all in their twenties. All in love with the Yankees. I guess those were his favorites.”

Dan Velacruz, New York Times

60

When I woke in the morning, the sun barely peeking over the park, I thought of the dead girls. Rachel. April. Julie. Tiffany. Their names had almost blended together in my mind, one long word that ran on repeat. RachelAprilJulieTiffany. RachelAprilJulieTiffany.

I used to wake up and think of Chase. I’d roll over in this bed and want to cry, the need for him was so strong. As the years had passed, my memory of his smile had faded, the sound of his voice grown weaker, the taste of his kiss almost completely gone. I almost missed those painful mornings. Thinking of him would be better than crime scene photos and guilt.

RachelAprilJulieTiffany. With each day deeper into the season, their names got louder, the pressure grew stronger. I couldn’t take another name. We couldn’t shoulder another death.

I closed my eyes and willed sleep to take me back.

“Mrs. Grant.”

I didn’t move, the blanket warm and smooth against my skin, layered with two sets of the best sheets money could buy. Sleep was still close, my mind not fully awake, the sink back into nothingness—

“Mrs. Grant.”

I gave up and cracked open an eye, the room coming slowly into focus, warm light streaming in the windows and onto the bookshelves, the fireplace, the leather rug. From the angle of the sun, it was late. “Yes?”

“Mr. Grant is on the phone.” One of the house attendants, Paula, primly held out the phone, her free hand cupping her stomach, a pose I hated.

“Thank you.” I took the phone and sank back into the bed, before rolling onto my back and staring at the ceiling. RachelAprilJulieTiffany. “Hey.”

“I’m sorry to wake you, but Caleb’s school called me. He’s in the nurse’s office, got a bug of some sort.” Tobey’s voice was strong, one that spoke of hours of productivity. To the outside world he was charismatic and patriotic—the perfect man to lead the Yankees. No one knew of his inner struggles. No one knew of the brittle layer beneath his façade of strength. He was a good man, one who loved me. I avoided the girls by sleeping late. He avoided them with coffee and work, both of us sprinting uselessly down a treadmill of avoidance.

“I’ll pick him up.” I craned my neck, glancing at the silver clock on our bedside table. “What time did you leave?”

“Five. I know you told me to wake you, but you were sleeping so hard.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” I glanced toward the door, where Paula was making a quiet exit. “Paula? I’m leaving in ten.”

She nodded, shutting the door behind her, and I sat fully up, pulling back the covers. “How long are you staying?”

“I’m not going with them to Kansas City. I’ll be back Friday. Trust me, I need a vacation more than you right now.”

“I believe that.” I reached over to the bedside table, grabbing my ring and sliding it on. “Have you gotten tonight’s lineup?”

“I texted it to you. Doc says Gautte’s shoulder still isn’t ready.”

“Damn.” I smiled. “You’re on top of it.”

“Trying to be. I got big shoes to fill.”

“Don’t get too comfortable. I’ll drag your sister out of the hospital myself if she stretches this into next week.”

He laughed. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Keep me posted.”

“I will.”

I ended the call and tossed the phone onto the bed. Five minutes later, jeans and a henley on, I laced up my boots, grabbed a leather jacket, and jogged down the staircase, smiling at Paula, who held out my coffee and a bag with breakfast. “Thanks.”

Our elevator was waiting, and I had, in the quiet of the ride down, a moment to collect myself.

Margreta Grant—Tobey’s sister. A bottle blonde in the hospital for a procedure I strongly suspected to be another breast augmentation, but she was insisting otherwise. I should be in Tampa with the team, one of her socialite friends holding her hand through this harrowing experience, but it turned out fake friends sucked at real obligations, and sisters-in-law were expected to step up in their stead. I stepped out of the elevator, into the garage lobby, and nodded at the driver, taking a long pull of my coffee.

“Good morning, Mrs. Grant.”

“Morning, Frank. We’re picking up Caleb from school, then swinging by the hospital.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He opened my door, and I stepped into the warm car, tossing my bag onto the floorboard, my phone out and against my ear by the time we pulled onto the street.

Dad answered on the third ring, “Hey Ty.”

“Hey Dad. How’s Florida?”

“Terrible. Nothing but sunshine and bikinis.”

I laughed. “Stay there. New York hasn’t gotten the memo that summer is coming.”

“Surprised you guys haven’t flown south.”

“We’ll be in Aruba this weekend. I can defrost then.”

I opened the bag from Paula, pulling out a muffin, my phone put on speaker and set aside, conversation between us easy as I ate breakfast and tuned out the outside world. It wasn’t until Frank coughed that I realized we were at the school.

“Got to run, Dad. Drink something with an umbrella in it, and give Carla a hug for me.”

“Done and done.”

I ended the call, stuffing the rest of the muffin in the bag, and stepped out of the car and into the brisk wind, my walk into the school quick. Dad had retired two years ago, three weeks after summoning the courage to ask Carla to dinner. They’d married last year and bought a place in Key West, dividing their time between that home, and our old place in Alpine. It was strange, after so many years, the two of us against the world, that we were now separate, each with a spouse, each with our own lives. Part of me had been happy when he’d retired, the man deserving of a vacation, of a life outside of the strike zone. Another part of me had hated it. His job had been the last tie I’d had to the field. After he left, my relationship with the team as an old ball girl, as a teammate’s daughter… all that had died and I had moved fully into the role of Mrs. Grant. Mrs. Grant, who sat in the skybox. Mrs. Grant, who did “stuff” in the main office and wore suits and heels and was a stranger to everyone but the oldest uniforms on the team. The new guys were stiff, smiling politely and shaking my hand after games. They didn’t know me, and they didn’t care to. In the game of baseball, owners were the high maintenance afterthoughts, something I knew well, even if Tobey didn’t.