Copyright: HrimWriter 2012
Aftershock
“You know the trouble with putting people on pedestals, Aimee?”
Special Agent Edward Wilson tore his attention from the wall-mounted plasma screen to glance wryly at the forensic analyst beside him.
She answered distractedly, without thinking.
“They fall off?”
A thin track of black mascara streaked her white foundation. For a second, Wilson saw her as a part of the grainy black and white footage that flickered on the screen, as if she – as if they all – had become star noirs in this latest macabre crime scene.
Then Aimee’s narrow brows drew together sharply under her heavy black fringe. Incredulity flashed into her grey eyes and her blood red lips parted in an unvoiced denial of her statement, her assumption of what he meant. Inwardly flinching that she could think that of him, Wilson shied his gaze from her face and found himself confronting once more the image that had stilled on the screen.
His boss hung in chains. Sweat slicked his silvering hair to his scalp. Muscles and tendons in his strong-jawed face and powerful body bulged and strained in resistance to the inflicted agony. His lips were sealed stoically in a tight white line.
“Nope.”
Edward reached for Aimee’s keyboard and punched the screen into darkness. He faced her again, haunted and grim.
“It’s realising that you didn’t put ’em on one that was high enough.”
HrimWriter 