Life Penalty [antikvár]

T Ihe nightmare began at exactly seventeen minutes after four on the last afternoon of an especially warm sunny day in April. Up until that moment Gail Walton had considered herself a lucky woman, and if one of the reporters who later thronged to her house at 1042 Tarlton Drive had asked her to name her reasons for so considering herself, she would have been able to do so easily. Holding up the hands she would later use to shield her face from their cameras and the relentless, blinding flashes of lights, she would proudly enumerate the reasons for her good fortune with her long, elegant íingers. The first reason had to be Jack, a man as straightforward as his name, nothing fancy about him and perhaps a little rough around the edges, but a giving and honest man to whom she had been married the last eight years. The next two íingers would mark off each of her daughters, Jennifer and Cindy, two very different children by two very different men, which would bring down the fourth finger, the fourth reason Gail Walton considered herself a lucky woman, her