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384 pages, Paperback
First published July 2, 2013
For me, the rape is a permanent fixture on the clock, like midnight. A point of reference. I was nineteen years and four days old.
I felt like I was living on the last place on earth, trapped in an Edvard Munch painting with the cast of Real Housewives.
This was the archetype of the guy I didn’t do well around. The grown-up Pierces. Harry Dunn would have sex with me, pregnant and married, tonight, in the back of a car, hell, in the one-holer bathroom in the back of this restaurant. He’d said it with his eyes and with the hand he casually drifted up and down my back while his lips brushed my cheek. I hated myself for the primal physical response he elicited. Attraction and abhorrence at the same time.
“Lucky I dropped by. I decided it was as good a time as any to stick a personal reminder invitation to Caroline’s memorial service in your mailbox since you hadn’t been polite enough to RSVP. I go up to the mailbox, put my ear to the door, and ask myself, Why is Emily using power tools at midnight? My spidey sense was tingling. I got my Remington 700 ADC rifle out of my trunk, and here we are.”
Tell your girls. Tell them, tell them, tell them. Tell them to fight and scratch and yell his name. Tell them not to be ashamed. To break the necklace of women who’ve kept their rapist’s secret because they know him. Grandmothers and mothers, daughters and sisters, aunts and best friends. Century after century, decade after decade, year after year. Heartbeat after heartbeat.