~ Mrs Stockholm ~

My husband, Michael, returns home late.

I hear the low rumble of his car pulling into the driveway, but no horn follows.

I wait on the living room sofa, expecting the front door to open, but minutes pass and the engine just idles outside.

Unease coils in my stomach.

I stand, smooth my dress, and step out into the night air.

The car sits near the entrance, its engine humming softly.

Through the tinted glass, I can see Michael leaning hard over the steering wheel.

I knock twice on the window.

He rolls it down slowly, not bothering to lift his head.

A sour smell hits...