Why, oh why, did Anne Marie Whitehall take her own life, swallowing away her pain and her grief with a handful of Nembutal capsules and a bottle of Merlot?
Does Samantha Jacobs, the red-haired vixen, grinding away on a pole at the Revue, know?
Or perhaps Deena Cook, harried mother of four, and a regular visitor at Children’s Services?
Or does Cierra Maldonado, mother of two children by two different men, not receiving a penny of child support, and working as a cocktail waitress at a chi-chi club in downtown Cincinnati, know why?
Or perhaps Lettie Robinson, a four-hundred pound housewife of three healthy and hungry little boys, who knows the meat display at Wal-Mart better than the inside of her own trailer, know?
Well, someone knows why Anne Marie Whitehall committed suicide, but she isn’t talking.
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