Sarah twirled her fork in what was left of the plate of spaghetti, wasting time before she had to go home. She didn’t know why she came here, the same hole on the wall Italian place every Friday. She knew Jack wouldn’t be there, still at work, but still, she didn’t want to be home. What had happened at work was still following her, and she wanted to ditch it before the weekend. Not that this helped, or that she could forget. Maybe TV would help. She tuned in to the one hanging in the corner, the news. And dropped the fork. It was him. The man from work today. A mugshot. She didn’t notice the rest of it, the subtitles scrolling what had happened at the bank. She already knew. In a haze, she left the restaurant, drove him. Home, drove home! Dark already. As she pulled into the driveway, she stared at the open door. Of course he would come here, why wouldn’t he? After what she’d told him…