REDE
xhausted and spent, Red drove back home, up Hyperion, passing five-story stucco apartment buildings, their windows lit with colorful trees and holiday salutations. Old cars were wedged bumper-to-bumper, along with strewn bicycles, even an old Big Wheel. A homeless teenager sat on the corner with a handmade sign that read #FuckSanta.
At the red light, Red grabbed her cell from the passenger seat.
RED: Let’s talk.
The weight of what she’d done was sinking in, and it didn’t feel great. She hadn’t gotten the justice she’d felt she deserved. She deserved? What about Sasha?
“Well, it’s over,” she reasoned with herself. “Sasha needed to know the truth.”
What a mess. And a relief? Yes. Pretending had been exhausting.
Red squeezed into a parking space across the street from her darkene
