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She can still feel the sensation of their fingertips touching under the table, under the pretense of consoling an understandably distraught Martha. A couple of seconds maybe, then Lindsay pulled away quickly, a moment brief enough to be little more than imagination.
Still, the memory makes Cindy shiver with a guilty pleasure; guilty, because the circumstances couldn't possibly be worse. Pleasure, because she can't help it.
It's something short of a miracle that Lindsay is even here, sleeping in her bed while Cindy sits in front of her laptop, glass of wine in hand that does nothing to help her calm down.
Lindsay doesn't accept help easily even when she's got literally nowhere else to go. But it's come to this; her own bedroom is a crime scene now. Evil came in and made itself at home.
Cindy shivers violently; she can't imagine ever sleeping in a room with the ghost of a brutally murdered woman. You don't have to be very superstitious to have the idea scare the hell out of you. Lindsay won't admit to those fears, but it's rather telling that she came here without protest.
So where's the wonderful guy now that you need somebody?
She knows that line of thought isn't quite rational, as the man in question probably doesn't even know what's going on, but isn't that exactly the point?
Later, when she tiptoes into her bedroom, lying down on her side of the bed with her clothes still on, Lindsay doesn't even stir.
Cindy can't resist. She reaches out until, just like a few hours ago, their fingertips touch.
One day, Cindy dreams, there'll be more between them than a stolen caress in the dark. She can be patient.
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