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He grabbed a couple, began eating one, and wandered over to the bathroom, where John was already helping Luke wipe himself. Wide-eyed, the boy stared at his grandmother in the courtroom when asked about the hot dog, looking at her for comfort. A sex offender, more than a killer even, deserved a special place in hell—for robbing children of their innocence, for leaving scars that never healed. Greg, the middle child—with an older sister, Shannon, and a younger brother, Kevin—was a fast, athletic kid. They hung a punching bag from a tree so he could practice and made him slug it out with neighborhood kids. “You don’t need to cry.” Greg swallowed his tears, got good at the fighting. He was sweet and knew his manners, opening doors, carrying books, picking a flower for a date while stopped at a red light.
At forty, he’s still boyish, with short brownish-blond hair and pale blue eyes.
He brushes his teeth, the front ones prosthetic, and straightens to his full five foot eleven inches. He puts on a pot of coffee, turns on the computer, reads the news. His wife, Ticey, and their four-year-old, Anthony, won’t rise for a couple of hours.
The young couple often fought—she had left him once already—but they were trying to make things work, living with Greg’s mom in Red Oak.
He’d even found a decent job, as a mechanic-in-training at Mack Trucks.