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Ask yourself what will happen if you don't? Is it abusive, or condescending? When friends are involved in abusive relationships, I always voice my opinion. Years ago, when I helped keep a secret, a friend died. Now, I am known as a person who WILL intervene and NEVER stands by while someone tears down a friend. Unfortunately, It took the death of a friend to steer me in the direction of being a defender. Silence may be golden for some, for others it harbors a facade of abuse.

This is a true story. The murder took place June 7, 1991 in Rye, New Hampshire

Roberta Smart, was an LPN in a nursing home I worked at when I was 18. Even though she was my supervisor, Roberta was only a couple years older and we bonded pretty quick. I can't say we became close friends. But I will say, we were in the midst of developing a friendship that was cut short by her murder. A murder committed by her husband Richard.

Roberta was strangled to death by a man she both loved and feared. Her body was found in Rye, NH, dumped alongside a deserted road, covered by old rotted leaves. She left behind two young sons whom she was devoted to and perhaps died protecting.

My first impression of Roberta was she was a klutz.. Just about every day she would come to work with bruises on her arms and legs. Her reasons were believable. She would laugh at her clumsiness saying, " I bumped into this and fell over that." " My kids and I were horsing around ". I believed they were just accidents. I was young and gullible. Many of the older nurses did not believe her. They suspected abuse, and gossipped about her often. Unfortunately, no one tried to help.

After my first year of working at the nursing home, Roberta came in with a whopper of a black-eye. Six stitches over her eyebrow and a car accident story that was believable. A couple weeks later Roberta asked me to help remove the stitches. I was surprised she asked me, since we worked in a place loaded with Licensed medical personal. She explained how to cut the knot and pull the threads. I noticed the stitches were sloppy and didn't really close the gash. She admitted to stitching her own cut. I never asked why.

Roberta's space at the nursing desk was adorned with school pictures and accomplishments of her two young sons. She spoke highly of them and it was evident they were her whole life. She spoke very little about her husband Richard, until one night she and I had a few too many drinks. She told me he was very

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