Fixer was sitting at his kitchen table, looking over old Polaroid photos of his son and daughter when they were little kids. He blinked his blurry eyes and remembered the sound of finality in Cheryl’s voice. The memory of it is a stake in his chest. What if Cheryl left him? He couldn’t live with that failure. She’d take the kids. Might as well cut my heart out.
He stared at the dirty wooden floor. I have to fix this with Cheryl. The idea clamored for his attention. There is no one to blame for this stupidity but himself. He would beg Cheryl’s mercy and forgiveness. I’ll go into treatment. I’ll join AA. His eyes, burning from cigarette smoke and lack of sleep, search the dirty wooden floor for other ideas. Other plausible arguments for clemency. He couldn’t think of any, so he poured another drink.
He really did need a drink this time; hunting down a cold-hearted, remorseless, bloodthirsty man-eater like Spencer Carlin would be the biggest - and most dangerous - case of his career.