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She found herself sobbing in front of the detectives.The harassment was so creative, so relentless, so unpredictable.She covers for him when the abuse is to her, but abuse to the child I don’t know what will happen.”In her report of the visit, detective Angie Galetti wrote that the Allens’ son “came downstairs and appeared to be happy and healthy.” She described how Courtney had to coax her nervous son into showing his skin to the detectives: “There was no suspicious bruising or marks of any kind,” she wrote. ” A reply came accusing Steven of also using unsavory cybertactics to find out about Courtney’s online behavior, but added: “I am MUCH better at it. Your Jetta, in the driveway”—and yes, that’s where it was.He “appeared appropriately attached to his mother and Detective Lorette and I had no concerns.”But Courtney’s concerns were mounting. The message included the car’s vehicle identification number.Around the same time, at least 15 of her neighbors received a “community alert” in the mail warning them that they were living near a dangerous abuser, Steven Allen. But the most frustrating thing was how hard it all was to explain or prove.Courtney was beginning to feel trapped in a world of anonymous abuse.She didn’t know if she would be able to convince anyone that what she believed to be happening was real.relationships often do these days, online.From the start it was a strange and tangled story of exposure and distrust in the internet era.
“It was a really strong friendship and then turned into not a friendship.”At the time, Courtney was staying home with her toddler.
Three days earlier, Courtney and her husband, Steven, had gone to the police headquarters in Kent, Washington, a suburb of Seattle, and reported that, for the past few months, they had been the victims of a campaign of online harassment.
Courtney felt her hope give way to a familiar dread.
The day before, she had gotten an email to an account she only used for spam. Courtney had started having nightmares; just going outside made her afraid.
She felt violated by the images of her that were circulating who knew where, and anxious about what might come next. It was “one of the worst moments of my life,” she said later, hoping that help was coming but instead “having to lift up my son’s shirt and show them my son’s body to make sure he had no bruises.” When the detectives asked for her phone number, she realized she didn’t remember it—she had just changed it in an attempt to evade the endless calls.