A Job to Kill For Read Free

one, the injury could be innocuous.
    On the other hand, if people don’t die that easily, why was Cassie not breathing?
    I made a fast call to 911, then dropped the phone. CPR. I’d taken a class back when I was pregnant the first time, wanting to be prepared for all emergencies. Could I remember anything? I pushed Cassie’s jaw forward to open the airway, then put my lips against hers and breathed twice. I sat back, put my palms against her chest, and pumped fifteen times.
    No response.
    I kept going. Breathe twice, pump fifteen times. Breathe twice, pump fifteen times.
    Cassie sputtered.
    Thank God.
    Her chest was moving up and down, just slightly. I had to do something about the head gash. I rushed to the bathroom, grabbed a pale yellow Hermès towel, and charged back, pressing it against the wound to stanch the bleeding. In a moment the towel was bright red. I got another and held them both tightly against her head.
    “Cassie, what happened?” I whispered.
    Her lips were chalky, her eyes still closed.
    I heard someone pounding on the front door and rushed to the foyer, flinging open the door. Two EMTs in short-sleeved blue uniforms stood at the ready, holding their emergency medical equipment.
    “She’s barely breathing!” I screamed. “You’ve got to do something! She could die!”
    “Where is she?” asked the taller of the two, who couldn’t have been old enough to buy a beer. His elbows stuck gawkily from under his sleeves, and he had a rash of acne across his forehead, but he charged in, not hesitating for a second, and followed as I raced back to the study.
    “Tell me what happened,” he said.
    Choking out a few details, I dropped to my knees next to Cassie. The lanky young EMT pushed me aside and quickly evaluated the patient.
    “No pulse. No breath,” he called out, starting to press on her chest, with the CPR maneuver I’d already tried. “Prepare to intubate her. Start an IV.”
    The second EMT—shorter than his partner, but with the broad chest of someone who spends a lot of time at the gym—put a hand under my elbow. “You need to move aside,” he said, practically lifting me up. Then he grabbed for his radio and I heard him calling for backup.
    The next few minutes passed in a confusion of blood, equipment, needles, and tubes. I stood to the side, reeling in horror.
    “No response,” said one of them.
    “Give her some epi,” insisted the other. “We’ve got to get this heart started.”
    The backups started arriving, two by two. A pair of policemen came in, and then two LA firemen. A second pair of EMTs dashed in, and then another couple of cops—the emergency-response version of Noah’s ark. People called out suggestions and radios spluttered with static and barked instructions.
    “Let’s get her to the hospital,” someone said. “We’re not saving her here.”
    In seconds, Cassie was on a stretcher, being whisked out the door. I rushed after, negotiating with the EMTs about which hospital they’d go to. We exchanged a few sharp words, but then they nodded and were gone. Far below, I heard loud sirens blaring—and then silence.
    I went back to the living room, sunk into a chair, and dropped my head to my knees. The buttery leather cuddled around me, but I didn’t feel any comfort.
    “You okay, ma’am?”
    I sat up and looked straight into the concerned face of a cop. She was slim, with clear skin, bright blue eyes, and straight brown hair pulled into a ponytail. The stiff uniform masked her shape, but she’d cinched her belt tightly around her waist and her gun just accentuated the gentle curve of her hips. I had to figure her for a real cop, but she might as well have wandered off a primetime set at CBS.
    “I’m okay, but I don’t know about Cassie. It happened so fast,” I said.
    “Are you a relative?”
    “No, I’m Lacy Fields. A friend, I guess. Her decorator.” I shook my head, trying to clear the confusion. “But her husband. We should call her husband.