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It was gone two in the morning when Lindsay Boxer stepped out of the house. Most of the reporters had gone, patrol was down to the numbers required to keep the scene secure, rubberneckers and the owners of crime blogs had hurried on home to update their fans with the most recent news.
It was just as well because Lindsay was sure all she would have seen if a sea of faces were before her, was rows and rows of lips sewn shut. She hadn't dared looked anyone in the face since her exhaustion set in hours ago; the department psychologist would have a field day if he knew she was having those sorts of problems. Hallucinations, right? That's what it was, because it sure as hell wasn't really happening, and she wasn't asleep; so that left seeing things which weren't there. Detectives didn't last long when those sorts of symptoms started.
Another reason to be glad the crowds were gone, fewer people watching her and seeing just how fragile her neutral facade had become.
"You look exhausted." Of course Cindy was still there, that woman didn't seem to need sleep the way the rest of them did. Jill had called it a night around half midnight, Claire had accompanied the body to the morgue not long after. Lindsay found herself thinking how glad she was the young reporter was there, then brushed that thought aside and walked down the steps towards her.
"Takes something out of you," Lindsay replied vaguely.
If there had been fifty — a hundred — reporters there to scrutinise her, Lindsay was sure even that would have paled in comparison to how piercing Cindy's attention was. Lindsay couldn't bring herself to meet Cindy's eye, nor even make more than fleeting glances in her direction; God, she couldn't bear to look at Cindy and see lips sewn shut.
Cindy seemed to accept that there was something just out of reach that she shouldn't touch on yet.
"Is it him?" Cindy asked, then after a beat added, "off the record?"
Lindsay sighed. "One of the other reporters is already running the headline of Kiss Me Not being back, you might as well go on the record too. I'll give you something that gives you an edge on the other guy."
Cindy beamed — the gratitude felt out-of-place given the horror that Lindsay had left behind her in that house — then lifted her hand as though she were going to touch Lindsay's arm. Maybe it was to thank her, maybe to comfort her; either way it didn't happen, Cindy curled her fingers back and dropped her arm.
"So, on the record…" — Cindy glanced around at the street and then back at Lindsay — "do you want to get coffee? Or something to eat, when did you last eat?"
"You get that it's the middle of the night, right?" Lindsay asked.
"Something's always open. City doesn't sleep," Cindy said, "We'll take your car."
"Fine. Come on then." Lindsay walked towards her car, Cindy having to jog to keep up with her long strides.
"It's some kind of unfair how you got legs like…" Cindy muttered to herself.
Lindsay called back over her shoulder, "What's that about my legs?"
"Nothing!" Sweetness and innocence in vocal form, and Lindsay bet that if she turned around there would be wide-eyed "who me" painted across the reporter's face. It was, after all, how Cindy Thomas wiggled her way into and out of most situations.
"What was your on the record question?", Lindsay asked as they got in the car and she waited for Cindy to finish buckling up.
"Linds..." Cindy softened her voice. "I'm alright, you won't see what you're dreading if you look at me."
Fuck. When had Lindsay become so goddamn transparent? She wrapped her fingers around the steering wheel and squeezed until the material felt warm beneath her hands. One deep breath in, one long exhale out.
She started with a glance, barely allowed herself to see that Cindy's lips were unmarred before looking back at the front. Another deep breath in and out, then she turned her head to face Cindy. The relief lifted a crushing weight from her chest and she just about managed to return the smile Cindy gave her.
Lindsay was very glad Cindy had waited around.