Cold Justice by Rayven T. Hill Read Free Book Online

9
     
     
     
    Wednesday, August 17th, 5:15 PM
     
    PHILIP MACY closed the ledger and gathered up the loose
papers on his desk, stuffing them into a file folder. He dropped them into a
drawer and pushed back from his desk.
    He had tried to reach Abby a couple of times that afternoon
but she wasn’t picking up the phone. He tried once more now, but got the same
result. No answer. He dropped the phone back into its cradle.
    Samantha had already gone home for the evening, and the
office was empty except for him. He sighed wearily as he stood up, grabbed his
briefcase, and left the suite of offices, locking up behind him. He hurried
down the two flights of stairs to the underground parking.
    He tossed his briefcase into the back seat of his Lexus and
headed for home. He tried again to call her from his cell phone. Still no
answer. This is not like her. She always answered the phone if the caller ID
showed it was him.
    He spun into the driveway and threw the gearshift in park.
Forgetting his briefcase, he jumped from the car and sprinted up the steps to
the front door.
    As he pushed the key into the lock and swung it open, he
knew something was wrong. The door wasn’t chained the way Abby had always left
it lately when she was there alone. Perhaps she had gone out for a walk.
    “Abby?” he called. “Are you here?”
    No answer.
    He stepped inside the lobby and dropped his briefcase onto
the floor, walking into the kitchen.
    “Abby, are you here?”
    No answer. Probably up in her room.
    He ran up the steps and into the guest room, calling her
name. The room was empty. He was sure he would find her here. He walked back
down the stairs.
    It was when he went into the living room he saw her. She was
slouched back in the stuffed chair in an unnatural position.
    He dashed over to her. Something didn’t seem right.
Frightened now, he shook her gently, trying to wake her. There was no response.
    “Abby. Honey. Wake up!” He shook her more, almost violently
now.
    Her eyes were closed. She looked to be sleeping peacefully,
but still no response to his pleading.
    He checked her pulse. On her arm, then her neck. Nothing.
She didn’t appear to be breathing. Her skin felt cool.
    Panicking now, he dug furiously into his pocket. Found his
cell phone. He dialed quickly, his hand shaking. His whole body shaking.
    Two rings, then, “9-1-1. What is your emergency?”
    He spoke rapidly. “It’s my wife. She’s unconscious. I can’t
revive her. Maybe she’s dead.”
    “I’ll send an ambulance right away. What’s your address,
sir?” The operator spoke calmly.
    “88 Silverpine Street. Please hurry.”
    “It’s on its way now. Sir, is she breathing?”
    “No, she doesn’t seem to be.”
    “Do you know how to perform CPR?”
    “Yes. Yes, I’ll try.”
    He dropped the phone onto the coffee table, leaving the
speaker on, and carefully lifting Abby from the chair, he laid her on the
floor. He forced her head back and her mouth open, blowing his own air into her
lungs, over and over again.
    He tried to get her heart pumping. Working furiously. Her
heart didn’t respond. She didn’t breathe. He wasn’t getting any sign of life.
    Again, he forced air into her mouth. Into her lungs. He
begged her to answer him, as he pumped furiously at her heart, again and again.
    The awful truth finally crashed into him, and he stopped. He
rose from his knees and sat on the edge of the chair, his face in his hands,
sobbing uncontrollably.
    “Abby,” he wept. “My Abby.”
    Finally, he sat back, trying to gain some control of
himself. He wanted desperately to make some sense of this. It was then he
noticed the half-full bottle of vodka and the nearly empty bottle of pills on
the stand beside the chair.
    He was bewildered. Had she done this herself? Had she
overdosed? He blamed himself. He should never have left her alone. He dropped
his head and wept again, in shock and disbelief. “It can’t be. It can’t be,” he
said, again and again.
    He