DISCLAIMER: Women's Murder Club and its characters are the property of James Patterson, 20th Century Fox Television and ABC. No infringement intended.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
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Fragile
By Demeter
Lindsay can't get the image out of her head, no matter how hard she tries. It isn't guilt, she knows. By the time she arrived on the scene, there was nothing she could have done for the woman. This case was actually closed a lot easier than most; some guests had been able to stop the shooter and secure him until the police arrived. There wasn't much left for her to do other than arrest him. Much as she would have enjoyed shoving his face into the concrete pavement, in the end, she couldn't do anything but simply put the cuffs on him.
He didn't resist. He grinned at her, because whatever happened next, his mission was accomplished.
Jill hides in a corner of the morgue as usual, but Lindsay has to guiltily admit that seeing Emily Myers on Claire's table, naked and still, bothers her less than the first time she saw her.
Myers had already been dead, the pristine white of her dress stained with a dirty crimson. She'd been gunned down by her ex on the day of her wedding. Her husband is still in psychiatric care, so are a good deal of the wedding's guests.
The shooter didn't kill him or any of the other family members and he didn't have to, the image will be forever burned into their minds.
As it is into Lindsay's.
White and red. Happiness. Death.
She thinks of her own marriage. Lindsay wryly acknowledges that most of the time, she is really good at repressing the fragility of life, how soon it can all be over. Of course she has to, or she'd go crazy going to crime scene after crime scene, death by her side all of the time.
At least this time, there's no way the murderer will get away; he's been caught on camera. Lindsay has seen the video, and she barely managed to keep herself watching. The beginning of the ceremony, the smiling couple, then the explosion of the shot ringing out. Screams, people running in every which direction, and the image flickers over to one man who smiles right into the camera.
"Bitch," he'd told Lindsay. "She was going to take my children away. How could I let her do this?"
Your average Joe, holding a job and living in a nice apartment, one day turning around and gettting a gun to kill the woman he thinks of as his property. It's days like this that Lindsay feels tired, wanting to quit, but of course she won't.
That night at Papa Joe's, Cindy is the only one sitting at their table when Lindsay arrives, typing away on her laptop, a cup of coffee by her side. The image wavers and is overlaid by that of blonde hair and white silk matted with blood, the present dissolving in a surreal, Dali-esque way. Then it stabilizes again. Lindsay takes a deep breath. It's been months since she wanted to ask that question, and now would be a good opportunity. She's just not sure if she's be brave enough.
Cindy finally notices her, her face lighting up with a warm smile that makes Lindsay just a tiny bit more hopeful. Instead of sitting across from her, she takes a seat next to Cindy. "Hey," she says, suddenly at a loss for words. "You look busy."
With a sigh, Cindy takes off her reading glasses. "Yeah. I need to get this out before the video is all over youtube." She regards Lindsay attentively. "You look tired. Let's call it a night soon. There's really not much to celebrate."
"No, there isn't," Lindsay agrees.
She could ask that question right now. Jill and Claire are already late; they'll be here any minute, another opportunity gone. But how silly would that sound – remember that other time, sure, it's been months ago and neither of us was really sober, but when you were talking about doors opening, did it imply that you and I...
Lindsay smiles to herself. No, there's no way she's going to word it like this. It annoys her that she doesn't know how, but how would she, when, empowered woman that she believes herself to be she hasn't really asked anyone out in ages? Of course that was because she's been married for six years, and after that there hadn't been any dates except when some well-meaning friends set her up.
There's never been anyone like Cindy Thomas.
"What's funny?"
"Nothing. Sorry."
They fall silent again. Lindsay watches Cindy as she finishes her text and mails it. Her hair falling forward. Her hands on the keyboard.
Of the few lovers she's had, Lindsay has been comfortable with most of them, but she can't remember aching with the need to touch, not like this. Her face warms at the thought. Lover. Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?
"Okay, I'm done. Jill and Claire sure take their time, don't they? Have you heard anything--"
"Cindy."
She's got her full attention instantly, and Lindsay decides that she isn't going to ignore the fragility of life any longer. "I was wondering... when we're finished here, would you come with me? I mean, home."
Well done, Lindsay. It could mean everything from watch some TV, a friendly hug to I can't deny any longer how much I want you.
Cindy takes her hand, holding it in hers. "I would," she says.
Red and white, blood and silk. Hate and love. For the first time this day, the images vanish into the background, until what remains is a simple gratitude, because there isn't only death in her life.
Maybe, with a little luck, there'll be happiness, too.
The End