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Out Of The Dark
By Demeter


There isn't any room for dark and dusty spaces filled with crime scene photos and resonating with the victims' pain, not in the home she shares with Cindy.

They bring work home sometimes or have the girls over for a non-club meeting, but they are careful not to let the horror spread. The attic, these days, means a small cozy room furnished with a bed, a dresser, a wardrobe and a rocking chair. They use it as a guest room.

Lindsay kept her promise. She hasn't thought about Pete in a while.

She sits in the rocking chair, once again taking the photograph out of the manila envelope. She hadn't been to the scene, had refused to pay that much tribute to the killer who had taken over her life for seven years.

The picture shows the fraction of a wall, a name written on it. Lindsay, spelled in blood. His own. That had been his last attempt at getting to her.

She thinks of the brief time she'd spent with him, the serial killer her lover, in her life, in her home, her bed, his hands on her body. The violation. The strength of the sensation, nausea churning in her gut even now, surprises her.

It's been three years. He'd thought he could cage her forever, with this last message, the last action, but he underestimated her.

Lindsay has moved on. She's still good at her job, up for promotion soon, she found the person she wants to spend the rest of her life with, and she's got great friends. No one can ask for more. She won't.

She slides the crime scene photograph back into the envelope and takes it back down with her to the office where it will wait another year, fading over time like the memory.

The End

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