It's a Sin
They should stop seeing each other, and she knows it. There's a reason why she's always kept Sam Bosco at arm's length, despite being well aware that her feelings for him were entirely mutual.
Now Sam is dead, while she spends most of her nights in a shabby motel room.
"This is so wrong," she murmurs as his lips trace the curve of her breast, though her words lack any conviction.
He doesn't stop exploring her body, and she arches back when he lowers himself onto her.
She calls his name again and again, until they're both spent and lie in a tangle of limbs on the bed. His left hand absent-mindedly strokes her hair, the golden band on his finger glistening in the moonlight.
Silent tears trickle down her cheeks as a familiar wave of guilt rushes through her. Just because someone's wife is in a catatonic state and has been institutionalized, she shouldn't feel entitled to sleep with her husband.
She can't even begin to understand what a terrifying thing would be to see your precious daughter being slaughtered right before your very eyes.