Chapter 37
Chapter 37:
“Mrs. Lynch!” June screamed toward the corridor. “Help! Call 911 p>
Footsteps pounded down the hall. Mrs. Lynch rushed into the study, looked at Eleanor on the floor, and pressed both hands over her mouth with a piercing shriek.
“Don’t scream — call 911!” June said, her voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “And get the aspirin from the emergency kit in the hall. Now p>
Mrs. Lynch turned and ran.
June pressed two fingers against Eleanor’s neck. Nothing. The carotid artery was completely still.
“No, no, no,” June whispered.
She interlocked her fingers, placed the heel of her hand at the center of Eleanor’s chest, locked her elbows, and pushed down hard.
Crack.
The compression sent a fresh wave of agony radiating from June’s stomach. Cold sweat broke out across her forehead. Her vision blurred at the edges.
She pushed again. And again.
𝗝𝘰i𝘯 𝘁𝘩𝘦 𝗰𝗼mm𝘶𝘯і𝘵y 𝗮𝗍
With every compression, she felt the hot, spreading warmth beneath her bandages. Fresh blood soaked through the gauze and into the white fabric of her shirt beneath the red jacket. The pain was blinding — a serrated, relentless burn across her lower abdomen.
She did not stop. She could not stop.
“Stay with me, Eleanor,” June said through gritted teeth, tears and sweat mixing on her face. “Do not die on me p>
She kept working. Her arms burned. Her abdomen felt like it was being torn open. The blood spread in a dark, widening stain beneath her jacket.
Then, finally, the wail of ambulance sirens cut through the air outside the manor.
Paramedics burst into the study with equipment bags and immediately took over, moving June aside.
“We’ve got her,” one shouted, tearing open a defibrillator pad. “Clear p>
June collapsed backward onto the floor.
She sat on the Persian rug, chest heaving, hands covered in sweat, and looked down at the floor around her. The divorce papers and the gossip pages lay scattered at her knees.
The paramedics loaded Eleanor onto a stretcher and wheeled her out.
June remained on the floor. She pressed one trembling hand against her bleeding stomach.
Cole would be notified. She knew that. A storm of enormous proportions was coming, and she was sitting at the very center of it.
The hallway outside the Intensive Care Unit at Mount Sinai smelled of bleach and sterile despair.
June sat on a hard plastic chair, her red suit jacket draped across her lap. She stared blankly at the opposite wall. The white button-down shirt beneath the jacket was ruined — a dark, spreading stain of fresh blood covered the lower right side of her abdomen. Her face was chalk-pale, her fingertips ice cold.
The elevator at the end of the hall chimed.
Cole stepped out, bringing the freezing temperature of the city in with him. His jaw was clenched so tightly that the muscles ticked visibly beneath his skin. He radiated a suppressed, dangerous fury.
Three senior board members of the Compton Consortium followed closely behind, their faces grave, their suits impeccable.