Both hands move to her throat. And they squeeze.
Sal arches, a gasp wrenching from her lungs as his grip intensifies.
Oh God, she can’t get air. She’ll die here in her kitchen, and Luke ... oh God, Luke—
Stars burst in her vision, and her ears ring. The world blurs in front of her, a blackening of its edges, even as Sal fights to be strong, fights to live, despite her body begging her to let go. To give in to that final dark wave.
Roy lifts her, dragging her up the wall with both hands. She feels the slipping of her feet from the floor, feels her arms hanging slack at her sides, feels her eyes crossing. . .
“You kept running. You kept running, Jenny. From me. From your husband. What kind of wife are you?”
Not yours. Not your wife, Sal thinks right before her mind gives out. Never.
As Sal sinks into unconsciousness, the last thing she sees is Roy’s hands.
Around her throat.