His car skidded to a stop. Home, much too early.
She ducked into the hallway closet, the door clicking shut behind her.
She put her ear against the stained wood, her hand tight on the cold, brass knob.
He moved deliberately through their living room, his heavy footsteps causing the floorboards to groan.
Did he figure it out? Must have. Why else would he be here? At this hour?
She reached behind, her fingers gripping the handle of her suitcase. Her whole world jammed inside this pink plastic shell. Everything else, replaceable.
She inhaled deeply.
One last dash for freedom.
The Weekday One Hundred 