She reached out for the phone, but stopped short of grabbing the receiver. Prints. She couldn’t leave prints on his phone. A glance around the office revealed a box of tissues on the bookshelf behind her. She grabbed one and used it to pick up the phone. Setting the receiver to the side, she dialed 911 with the tissue and picked it back up.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“He’s dead,” she whispered. “Someone shot him.”
“Who’s dead, ma’am?”
“Abbott. Jeremiah Abbott. In his office. I–“ a sob stopped her.
“Where are you ma’am? We’ll get a squad car right to you.”
Tina rattled off the address she knew almost better than her own personal address, making sure to keep her voice low. He not only most likely had the ability to get phone records, but listen to emergency call recordings, too. She couldn’t take any chances.
“Thank you. I’ve dispatched emergency vehicles. Can I have you name? I’ll let the officers know you’re there.”
“No, I can’t.” Her free hand gripped her throat. “I’m sorry, I can’t.” She hung up the phone and shoved the tissue in her purse. Stepping gingerly over Mr. Abbott one more time, she choked back a sob and rushed across the office. Seconds later, she pushed on the front doors. Locked.
Her momentum halted, she stood for a second. He’d come in, argued with Mr. Abbott, shot him, and taken the time to lock the doors on his way out. Chill bumps lined her arms. It all felt so calculated.
She dug in her purse for her keys, unlocked the door, hesitated briefly, then reasoned that she came in and out this door every day, her fingerprints were probably already on them. She pushed through the door and choked on the sticky, humid Georgia summer air.
James’ car sat to her left. She ran to it, got in, and took off.
Go here for the first and second installments.
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