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As much as he loathed himself for it, he couldn’t stop thinking about Abigail. If he hadn’t met her, he might be married to someone else. Some nice woman who didn’t throw dishes at him. He’d be asleep right now, lying on his side with her warm body snuggled up against his chest, and their children–yes, he was quite sure there would have been two or three of them–would be sound asleep in the next room dreaming of sugarplums or whatever kids dreamed about. If he hadn’t met Abigail, he certainly wouldn’t be stuffed like a slab of meat in the back of a car with his own executioners.
