Bree sat at her dining room table, unmoving. Numb.
In her mind's eye, she can still see the glass littering the street, can still hear the sound of screeching brakes, and can still taste the metallic tang of blood in the air.
She knew, of course, that this was all in her mind. The street had been cleaned up hours ago, the car towed away, and the driver arrested.
But Bree could still hear the scream, the pained moans, and then, the deafening silence. In the back of her mind, she had registered the sirens, then the paramedics pushing her away. She watched as they tried to bring back life, and failed. The coroner had been called. Bree's hands were slick with blood.
A police officer had asked why Lynette had been on the street so late at night. Bree told him. She had been going home. They had spent the evening together. They were lovers.
This was clearly news to Tom, who was nearby, begging for information about his wife. He looked devastated. Twice.
The officer allowed Bree to go, and she returned to her house. Took a shower, and watched the blood mix with water down the drain, pink. She dressed, the beige pants and dark green shirt Lynette loved so much. Then she sat at her dining room table. Unmoving.
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