The best thing about Bolognese, Emma thought, was the rich sauce, deliciously red and savoury.
John would love it.
She called his name but there was no response. Emma’s fork moved rapidly, spinning a juicy bundle of spaghetti, as she let her mind wander freely. Her eyes caught the bloodied lump on the kitchen board.
Absent-mindedly, she picked a small bone from between her teeth and tossed it aside. With her other hand, she raised a glass of wine.
To my tender husband.
On the board, one blue eye stared blankly back. The other went in the ragù.