Her only company these days was a bottle of vodka, which she kept on her bedside table. That and the gun she held loosely in her lap . . . and never used. Faye Valentine was not a weak woman, but when faced with the monotony that stretched before her . . . well, every woman had her limits.
If he'd been there, maybe he would have noticed. Noticed the bloodshot eyes. The chalky white skin. The weight loss. He'd have made some smartass comment about how she looked like shit, and she could have responded by cleaning herself up and saying she looked a hell of a lot better than he did.
But he wasn't there, so she was left alone, with just her vodka and her gun for company.