When she regained consciousness, the room was dark and cold. The house was silent except for the humming of her computer. Kathleen found herself face down on the tile floor amid her own vomit. Scott did to her what he always threatened during his drunken rages. She thanked God she could not remember, but the pain was searing, like a hot knife had been thrust into her bowels.
Hatred flooded over her as she stared at her husband’s
coffin, thinking bitterly that the beloved Scott Buckley, pride of Sedona, beat and sodomized his wife, was a drunk and a womanizer.
She stiffened. Eight men leaned into the cold spring wind, carrying the bronze casket past her. All of them she knew well. None of them looked at her as they passed, carrying their heavy load up the incline into the church
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