Justice For Abby Read Online Free PDF Page A

belly—a first in more months than she could remember.
    “I’ll…be right back,” she murmured, surprised, confused, frowning as she headed to the kitchen for a drink and a moment of clarity. She grabbed a glass from the cupboard, opened the refrigerator for the pitcher of filtered water, and poured, shaking her head. The champagne must have packed a bigger punch than she realized.
    Shoving the pitcher back in the fridge, forgetting her glass entirely, she started toward the hall, curious to see if her stomach flip-flopped again or if she had fallen victim to a moment of alcohol-induced madness. “You know, I think I might be a little drunk.”
    He turned as he hung his coat in the closet, shaking his head. “You’re not drunk, Abby. You’re not even half in the bag.”
    She studied Jerrod’s well-muscled build and sexy face, relieved when her belly remained flopless and she only saw her hunky pal instead of a potential love interest. No madness here, thank goodness, just a silly moment of...whatever that was. “Yeah, I guess.”
    “I want to show you something.” He closed the closet and turned toward the entrance, reaching for a thin bar, sliding it across the dark, glossy wood of their front door, locking it in place with a click.
    The slight scrape of metal made her flinch. “What—what is that?”
    “A security bar. I installed it today while you were with Jackson and Alexa.”
    She stared at the white metal trapping her in her own home, swallowing the familiar tang of fear as she stepped back. “Why did you do that?”
    “Jackson and I thought we should take a couple of extra measures with the trial getting closer. It’s easy to use and unobtrusive.” Jerrod pulled the bar up and sent it home effortlessly.
    The piece clicked, scraped and clicked again. Abby stepped further away as past and present blurred. Get in the closet, little bitch. You want to try to run away, you can sleep in here. The slam of the door and slide of metal trapping her in the dark echoed in her head.
    “…wrong?”
    Her eyes darted to Jerrod’s as sweat dribbled down her back, and she clutched clammy hands together, fighting to keep her breathing steady.
    “Abigail.” He walked to her. “What’s…”
    His mouth moved, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying over the pounding in her skull.
    He touched her arm.
    “Don’t!” She cringed, crashing into the table behind her, knocking chunky blue candles to the floor as she shoved at his chest. “Don’t touch me!”
    He held his hands palm up and took a step back. “Take it easy, Abigail. I’m not going to hurt you.”
    The wave of terror ebbed as the concern in Jerrod’s steady eyes registered, and she was immediately ashamed. Jerrod would no more harm her than Jackson. “I’m—I’m sorry.”
    He slowly lowered his hands. “You don’t have to apologize.”
    “I’m sorry,” she repeated and turned, hurrying to her room, closing the door as far as she was able. She sat on her bed and switched on her bedside lamp. Why was this happening ? Twice in one night she’d freaked. She covered her face with her hands and rocked, fighting back tears of mortification. Not only had she lost it, but she’d shoved Jerrod. Why did she do that? With a shake of her head, she let loose a groan of misery. Jerrod had witnessed several of her panic attacks; he’d helped her through many, and she’d never lashed out the way she did moments ago.
    Sniffling, she dropped her hands and stared out at the city through her enormous windows, rushing to her feet as another thought frightened her. What if she was losing ground? Surely she was. Weighty tension settled along her neck and shoulders as she started pacing. What if Dr. Tate was wrong and she wasn’t doing exceptionally well? She’d had her last session with her psychologist just before Thanksgiving. Weeks, only weeks and she was regressing. Dr. Tate had warned of triggers and temporary setbacks, but this had to be more.