DISCLAIMER: Women's Murder Club and its characters are the property of James Patterson, 20th Century Fox Television and ABC. No infringement intended.
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"Inspector Boxer? I'm US Marshal Annie Frost. Can you answer me a few questions about what happened in the bar?"
Lindsay struggled to keep her eyes open and jog her memory through the haze of pain medication. The situation felt surreal, the woman by her bedside with the gun and badge, her voice soft, but urging. It felt wrong. Usually, Lindsay would be on the other side of this deal. US Marshal... Frost... bar...
As the memory slammed into her brain, her heart started racing. Her attempt to sit up merely resulted in some tiny movement of her fingers. "Cindy..."
The uncertainty was suffocating.
The marshal's expression looked grim for a moment. Determined. There was a familiarity. "I believe that she's still alive," she said, and Lindsay took the fraction of a breath. It was everything. It was not enough. Sleep was like a heavy weight pulling at her. The woman's voice, her accent familiar and comforting felt like a lullaby. She couldn't resist much longer.
It seemed to take forever to string together a few sentences to decribe the events that had gotten her here.
Lindsay felt slightly embarrassed by the tears hot on her face. However, Annie Frost seemed to get the unspoken message anyway. "I'll find him and I'll bring her back. Alive," she promised with an undeniable certainty.
She squeezed Lindsay's fingers gently before she got up to leave, to get the job done. In the worst nightmare, there was a tiny ray of hope now.
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