Chapter 12
Raymond yanked her outta the tub, his face all cold and serious, and carried her outta the house.
Weirdly enough, she actually saw panic, fear, and anxiety in his eyes.
She must be dying, seeing such crazy stuff.
Margaret totally blacked out.
Raymond, all decked out in a black suit, had just gotten her to the underground garage when he noticed something was off with Margaret. He checked her breath with his fingers.
His face scrunched up, and he plopped her in the passenger seat.
He sped to the hospital crazily.
The red lights along the way made Raymond slam the steering wheel in frustration.
He took a route with fewer lights. He floored it. The speedometer kept climbing.
The veins on his hands gripping the wheel were popping out.
His usually handsome face was all tense and rigid with anger and frustration.
He realized she wasn't kidding when he got that photo and text from her.
He didn't wanna come to her; it was better if she died. She deserved it.
But he was heartbroken so bad it felt like it was gonna explode, and he was so pissed he wanted to punch someone.
He thought about it and decided he couldn't let her die so easily; he couldn't let Marlon off the hook. Marlon loved Margaret the most. Keeping Margaret alive to torture Marlon was what he wanted.
Margaret, in the passenger seat, had her long hair all tangled and stuck to her cheeks, her face already pale.
Her wrist was still bleeding like crazy, the cut was deep and scary.
A flash of distress crossed Raymond's eyes.
But then he remembered himself at ten years old, hiding under the bed.
Sandra Thomas, dressed in plain clothes, was murdered and fell to the ground.
He was so scared he wanted to scream, to get help.
Sandra, lying on the ground, blood pouring from her lips, shook her head at him with difficulty.
She was like saying, "Don't speak; don't cry."
Raymond covered his mouth, crying silently and desperately.
The killer, afraid Sandra wasn't dead yet, grabbed her and stabbed her in the neck then set their house on fire.
Thinking of this, the distress in Raymond's eyes vanished, replaced by pure hatred.
Arriving at the hospital, Raymond ordered the director to do whatever it took to save Margaret, no matter the cost.
Margaret was wheeled into the operating room, and the door slammed shut, the red light turning on.
Raymond sat on the bench, pulled out a cigarette to smoke, his face blank, his eyes cold and hard.
His gaze was as cold as a beast holding back its anger, ready to pounce and catch its prey at any moment.
He didn't expect that Margaret, who was always scared of the cold and loved life, would actually try to kill herself. If he hadn't seen the picture she sent, he wouldn't have believed it.
When he saw the photo of her slashed wrist, he didn't wanna come. This was Marlon, Margaret, and the Hughes Family's karma. He shouldn't have gotten involved.
However, he thought of the past; he thought of their wedding when Margaret hugged his neck and acted all cute, asking him to always be good to her.
He felt like something was slipping away from him, this uncontrollable feeling of madness making him restless.
So he softened and came, kicked open the door, and saw Margaret sliding weakly into the blood-filled tub.
A doctor in a white coat, passing by him, looked at Raymond for a long time before approaching him. "Excuse me, are you Ms. Hughes' husband?"
This doctor was the one who diagnosed Margaret with late-stage liver cancer. He hadn't seen Margaret enter the operating room, but he heard Raymond mentioning Margaret while talking to the director.
He wanted to clarify. If the serious-looking Raymond in front of him was indeed Margaret's husband, he needed to inform Raymond about Margaret's condition.
"You are Ms. Hughes' husband, right?" the attending doctor confirmed again.
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