The Donaldson's were regular army to the core and then some. Pictures of Donaldson's killed in combat lined the grand staircase of the family mansion.
Equally devoted to the study of military tactics and the works of Marquis De Sade, they were a twisted lot.
Trace used to say that his family considered arms their profession and pain their hobby.
How did a nice girl like me from Lowell, Massachusetts get mixed up with this group of patriotic sadists? My predilection for reaching an orgasm only after a sound flogging had brought Trace Donaldson and I together. As a result, I had a five-year commitment to patch up soldiers in whatever piss poor backwater the Army selected.
Donaldson and his wife, Lois, my aforementioned brother-in-law and his wife and Mary Ellen, my dead husband's younger sister now in her fourth year at West Point.
They were watching me being abused as a prelude to entering Morrosco's Funeral Home in Melrose, Massachusetts for their son's wake. Donaldson had been traveling through the streets of Kabul when a mine had exploded under his Humvee.
Trace and his driver were killed instantly according to the letter I got from his commander. The Humvee had burned and several pieces of ordinance had exploded inside the cab.