DISCLAIMER: Women's Murder Club and its characters are the property of James Patterson, 20th Century Fox Television and ABC. No infringement intended.
SERIES: Follows The Deconstruction of the House of Boxer and Flowers In The Attic
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
FEEDBACK: To Demeter94[at]yahoo.de
Not Ready To Make Nice
"You can go now."
Lindsay stares at the network president in disbelief. "What's the catch?" she asks suspiciously.
He holds up his hands in defeat. "No catch. Hell, if you must know, we're running out of ideas. We tried everything. Damn fangirls wouldn't hate you, and they wouldn't forget you."
She stifles a smile. "What about her, then?" she asks with a nod to Echo.
The president rolls his eyes. "Excuse me? She had two seasons. She stays."
Lindsay calculates the chances that the two of them have, knowing that they look much better if one of them is on the outside. She knows where to go for help. Some of them have escaped the basement.
Echo knows it, too. "Don't worry," she says with a hint of irony. "I know how to entertain myself in here."
They embrace quickly while the president nervously shifts from one foot to the other. Women like these bonding makes him very nervous. He looks up at the screen playing the shows still on the air, starting to sweat a little when he sees the characters there, one of them looking too damn much like the woman whose release he just signed. He hits the remote quickly, sighing in relief when a reality show flickers over the screen. Good old cheap TV. These bloody feminists should know that this is the future. He wonders if... maybe not, he thinks when Lindsay turns to glare at him as if reading his mind.
"Go before I change my mind!" he huffs.
Lindsay smirks. "As you wish. We shall meet again... sir," she says, making it sound like the insult it was meant to be.
They will come back for Echo once they've gathered a few more allies. First though, she takes the hand of the woman who's been waiting for her at the top of the stairs.
"They girls are waiting," Cindy says, squeezing her hand gently. "I have been waiting."
"I have a question," Lindsay returns. "Is Prop 8 finally gone?"
"Not yet. I'm sorry."
It isn't until then that Lindsay realizes how much she had craved to hear her voice. "God, I missed you," she whispers.
They are about to walk out of the building, but there's one more thing Lindsay has to do. "Wait." She turns around once more to the president who's been watching them with a sour face, and shows him the finger.
"Don't you forget it," she says. "And next time I'll bring my sister."
Cindy laughs as they finally step outside into freedom.
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