Page 3 of So Bleak

It didn’t matter anymore. Let the tabloids and the shock shows have their fun. Let them spout whatever bullshit they wanted. They couldn’t hurt her. West couldn’t hurt her.

She had won.

She pulled on a sweater and shoes, then laced her hair up in a ponytail. Turk waited for her by the door, tail wagging happily, eyes as bright and sweet and loving as ever.

She grinned and ruffled his fur again. “Just a nice easy walk, boy. No bad guys to catch tonight.”

Turk seemed happy with that, but as Faith led him down the stairs and out into the city, she found herself wishing some villain was out there on whom she could release her frustration.

CHAPTER TWO

“At that point, the team kept their strategy close to the vest. They had several appeals pending, and—”

Lillian scoffed at Benjamin Trainor. “Why the hell are you still talking about the Night Stalker? He was nothing compared to West.

On the tiny screen, the man looked cartoonish. He didn’t look like a professional talk show guest. He looked like an actor from a 1950s science fiction movie communicating with someone from outer space. Of course, this little television wasn’t black and white, so it didn’t fit exactly.

“Wasn’t one of those to remove Judge Tynan from the case?”

That was the host, the equally cartoonish Tyler Hudson. Lillian secretly hoped West would make the smarmy little asshole one of his victims, but he never had.

“Yes,” Trainor replied. “Sort of. It was an appeal to overturn the decision of a judge who refused to remove him from the case. By that point, Ramirez had changed styles. He wore black clothes and sunglasses…”

This was very frustrating. This was supposed to be a show about Dr. West. He was a thousand times the man Richard Ramirez was. Ramirez was nothing special. He was just another rapist who needed to kill people to get off. They were a dime a dozen.

West? West was something special.

“You just don’t have any real news,” Lillian mocked. “That’s why you keep talking about the Night Stalker.”

It was disgusting. Richard Ramirez was inelegant and unrefined. He was a buffoon. Forget being in the same league as Dr. West. They weren't even playing the same sport!

“This is another way Ramirez and West are similar—"

“No!” Lillian screamed.

She lifted the tiny set off the desk and threw it against the wall. The damned thing didn’t shatter like she expected it to, so she slid to her knees, lifted it up and slammed it into the floor until she heard a pop and the screen finally went black.

She breathed deeply, clutching the dead TV and staring with bared teeth at the useless box. When her breathing calmed, she released the tv and slid backwards against the desk.

She closed her eyes and thought of blue.

Soft blue.

Corn flower blue.

Like Dr. West’s eyes.

She thought of that blue until her heart slowed to its resting rate, then sighed and stood up. She picked up the television and carried it outside of the closet that served as her office.

She’d have to buy another. People here were pretty good about not asking questions, but the motel owners would probably draw a line at having one of their televisions destroyed.

Did they even make those little tube TVs anymore? This motel was the only place Lillian had seen one in decades.

She might have to settle for a cheap flat screen. She could tell the manager that she had tripped and accidentally knocked the TV off of the desk. Any TV would be an upgrade over that shitty little box, so she doubted he’d raise too much of a fuss.

She tossed the TV into the dumpster. It fell with a muffled clang. The garbage had just been taken that morning. She’d have to go by a TV today so she’d have a way to placate the manager when he knocked on the room wanting to know why his TV was broken.

Lillian stood by the dumpster and replayed the special she had just watched.

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