Jennifer Sullivan didn’t know when Quentin Tyler left after he’d vented his anger. She slowly and shakily pulled herself up from the floor and slumped into a chair by the dining table, her entire body still trembling.
Ignoring her torn and disheveled clothes, she reached for the half-full bottle of red wine on the table, drinking straight from the bottle, desperate to drown herself in the alcohol.
Maybe it would’ve been better if she had been drunk earlier—perhaps the ordeal would’ve been easier to bear. She wiped the tears from her face, unable to imagine how she must look now.
As her thoughts became foggy, she only remembered Quentin Tyler’s cold, indifferent departure, his back turned to her as he left. The image sent chills down her spine, leaving behind an eerie silence.
She took
