Josiah
I always thought that having to inform Judy Coulier that her husband was dead was the worst job in the world. How wrong I was. Now I was on my way with Chris to go tell that same, grieving, unfortunate woman that her only child, her sweet innocent daughter, was being sexually abused, on film, and just might be hooked on a highly addictive drug.
Why the Universe, or God, or Goddess, or whatever powers-that-be allow so much tragedy to befall one woman, I couldn’t begin to understand.
The Couliers owned a little cookie-cutter house in the suburbs on the east side. It was white with dark red trim. There was a swing on the porch, a minivan in the driveway, and bright pink petunias in the flower beds. However, weeds were creeping in between the flowers, and the postage-stamp lawn
