Carleen staggered to her feet, knocking it over as it rolled under the bed.
That son-of-a-bitch was sitting out there in the living room, watching who knows what and gloating at her.
She stumbled out of the bedroom, wended her way toward the kitchen.
“Can I help you with anything honey?” he called out, not bothering to look up.
“The hell you can,” she muttered, drawing a butcher knife from the block and fumbling around the drawer until she found the knife sharpener. “The hell you can.”