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Crash Into Me: A Survivor's Search for Justice
Crash Into Me: A Survivor's Search for Justice
Crash Into Me: A Survivor's Search for Justice
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Crash Into Me: A Survivor's Search for Justice

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In September 2005, Liz Seccuro's world turned upside down when she
received an apology letter from the man who had raped her twenty-two
years earlier. The rape, which occurred when she was a
seventeen-year-old freshman at the University of Virginia, was reported
to the campus police, but their inquiry led nowhere. The man accused of
raping her left the university soon after, and Seccuro tried to put the
incident behind her, starting a business and a family, but like all
survivors of trauma, the memory was never far from the surface.


The letter brought it all back. Seccuro bravely began an e-mail
correspondence with her rapist to try to understand what happened, and
why. As the correspondence continued, Seccuro found the courage to do
what should have been done all those years earlier-prosecute him. She
began appearing on national television and radio to talk about the case.
Several crime dramas and a John Grisham novel, The Associate,
were based on her experience. She had found a way to end a terrible
story, but once judicial proceedings began, she found that what she
thought occurred at that UV A frat party was only the tip of the
iceberg. The investigation revealed at least two other assailants,
numerous onlookers, and a wall of silence among the fraternity members
that persisted two decades later.


Liz Seccuro's inspiring, unflinching memoir is about experiencing terrible trauma-and the power of justice to heal.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateJan 4, 2011
ISBN9781608193110
Crash Into Me: A Survivor's Search for Justice
Author

Liz Seccuro

Liz Seccuro is an event planner and a victim's rights activist. This is her first book.

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  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Liz Seccuro has demonstrated real courage in telling the story of her brutal rape and the trial held 21 years later. She has also demonstrated a generosity of spirit in telling her story (which could not have been easy for her) in the hopes that it will help others.As a 17-year-old virgin, Liz was raped by three men at a frat party on campus. Rape remains an issue on many campuses today. Her story about how the University dealt with this crime could be part of the reason why. Ms. Seccuro has taken a difficult story and told it simply with great honesty.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    This book could have people arguing for years. Liz Seccuro, cute little 17 year old University of Virginia student was drugged and gang raped at a fraternity party. She was discouraged at all levels from having her rapist prosecuted and even told by the dean of students that the police had no jurisdiction over the fraternity house where the crime occurred. After 21 years of therapy and finally establishing herself as an event planner and well to do wife and mother, one of the rapists, William Beebe, the only one whose name or even involvement she was sure of - following the 9th step of the Alcoholics Anonymous 12 step program - tracked her down and wrote her a letter of apology to make amends. This letter threw her into a series of panic attacks and made her fearful that the rapist would once again attack her. Beebe had been searching for her for 10 years and was able to get her home address from the UVA alumni association. This is almost beyond belief. In a series of chatty e-mails Beebe admits that he harmed her, admits that he raped her, acknowledges that she's probably angry about what happened, but also seems to express the idea that while the situation was unpleasant it wasn't violent or horrendous, just misguided. He seemed naively to think all would be forgiven. Seccuro repeatedly states that she does forgive him, for her own sake, but also had him prosecuted. The book covers the pretrial and trial testimony. Ironically Beebe, the only one of the rapists to show any remorse was also the only one ever prosecuted. There are those who think in the spirit of Christian forgiveness, Seccuro should have accepted the apology and not had Beebe prosecuted. After all he was young and disturbed and had a drinking problem. Seccuro admits all that is true. All that also had nothing to do with her. She was just a woman trying to lead her life, and he took control over her and violated her. She thought he needed punishment, certainly more than the 6 months in jail that he ended up receiving. I think she was right, and I'm very impressed with the way she is able to state the victim's side of the issue. Seccuro continues to be a victim's advocate and national speaker on the issue of rape. Her book in an unflinching look at the way rape victims are "handled" and the rights they must fight for.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    I think the story of how she sought justice could have been so interesting and since she's written other books I really expected this to be interesting, but if I didn't read really quickly I wouldn't have bothered finishing it.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    I enjoyed the book, overall, while trying not to let my opinion get in the way of the story. That is difficult when it is based on a true story and it's the author's experience of a life-changing event--being raped while a student at UVA. No one, including the author/victim, is sure exactly what happened during this horrible event. Though mine will not be popular opinion, I feel the judicial system handled the case well, even though the university, especially the Dean, failed the victim horribly. It's an issue (rape) that remains prominent in our Universities today--and this is a story that should be heard not only by the women about to enter University, but the men as well!
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Liz Seccuro was a 17-year-old freshman in college when she was drugged and raped at a fraternity rush party. Many years later, her rapist reached out to her to apologize. This is her personal account of her ordeal - mainly of her dealings with the justice system. We get a glimpse of the horrors of rape and its aftermath - Ms Seccuro was still dealing with panic attacks years later. But the real horrors in this tale are of her search for some justice. The dean and others in charge at the college wanted to sweep it under the rug and managed to do just that. When she decided to bring charges against the man who raped her, she was criticized in the press because, after all, he was only trying to apologize and in the years since the rape, he had become a model citizen. Others who were involved in the crime got off without any charges. I have had friends who were raped as teenagers (and virgins) and they were damaged for the rest of their lives. Ms Seccuro was very courageous to be willing to testify and face the criticism that, unfortunately, most rape victims face. Hats off to her for not only surviving, but overcoming her fears.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Crash into Me is a brutal read. Author Liz Seccuro recounts her ordeal as a rape victim contacted by her attacker twenty years after the crime. Attacked and raped as a college freshman, Seccuro narrates her ordeal of working with college authorities who refused to investigate the incident. This book chronicles her search for justice. Written in the same frank style as Alice Sebold's Lucky, Crash Into Me is not a pleasant read. But, I would say that this work is a must read.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    The Good Stuff * Brutally honest and powerful * Books like this one help give power back to those victims that have had their power forcefully taken from them * Refreshing to hear of helpful police officers dealing with rape victims/survivors * Admire the authors strength of character * Absolutely disgusted by the lack of support from the University and its archaic need to protect its reputation (Makes me wonder what Humber & Guelph-Humber would do in a similar situation) * Also truly disgusted by the legal system (Not just U.S. - Canada is no better) that treats rapists so leniently. In my opinion rapists are rapid dogs and should be put down. They are sick and cannot be cured -- sorry if that is brutal, but it is something I truly believe * See 1st quote - helped me understand the abandonment of friends/family when they learned about Jake's disability and my postpartum depression - doesn't make it hurt less, but it helped me to understand and forgive * I think this will inspire many more women to speak out about their own rapes and to also inspire more women to go into the law and/or education to help bring change to these archaic institutions * Actually has some of the court transcripts in it -- trust me you will shake your head at the absurdity of it allThe Not so Good Stuff * I am now truly terrified of sending my kids to University * It really is disturbing to see how society spends so much time/money on defending the rapist and blaming the victim -- really what the hell has the length of a skirt have to do with rape * I won't lie, its a tough book to read at times, often felt sick to my stomach, sad and angryFavorite Quotes/Passages"Perhaps some people feel that tragedy is contagious and to see it happen to a friend is to acknowledge the possibility of its entering one's own life. Regardless, it hurt deeply to lose friends I had considered a part of my support system.""I think in recovery they don't really teach you about how your admission now causes turbulence in the victim/survivor's life. From my discussions with people in the program, I hear taht addicts on your "step" just want forgiveness, neatly tied up in a bow.""Does it really give you a 'story' following a rape victim home? With her child in the car? Have some grace and class and get off my property."What I Learned * How horribly frequent rape still occurs at Universities and how it is still suppressed by these Universities in order to protect their reputations * That many of these institutions are more willing to cite a student for underage alcohol than rapeWho should/shouldn't read * Everybody! It does have brutal descriptions of the rape, so I would suggest not for younger than 14 - but if you do have a younger child I suggest talking over with them about the book.5 Dewey'sI won this from GoodReads and wasn't required to review it
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    This was one of those books that I found myself glued to till I had finished it. As I have a daughter who is in her freshman year at college it was a little scary to read, but I'm really glad I did. I gave this to her to read as well and encourage parents with daughters either getting ready to go to college or already there to read this ...then pass it on and have them read it. Well written and eye-opening.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Author Liz Seccuro was brutally raped at a party at a frat house when she was a freshman in college in 1984. The local hospital refused to administer a rape test and the university did all in its power to hush the incident up. Although she identified her attacker, nobody was ever charged or prosecuted for the crime. Twenty years later, Securro receives a letter in the mail from the rapist. He is on step 9 of an AA program - making amends and apologizing. The letter brings back all of the horror of the attack, and she decides to belatedly press charges, since there is no statute of limitations for rape in Virginia, where the attack took place.I found the first part of the book, in which Seccuro describes her suburban life and way the sudden contact with her attacker completely disrupts her life, to be very slow moving and slightly boring. The story picks up, however, when Seccuro gives details of the rape and her actions immediately following. She goes on to tell of the trial and her attempts to finally find justice in a system which often blames the victim more than the perpetrator. It was an interesting read - I finished the book in one day. It was disheartening to see, however, how "justice" is not always just.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    I found this book very interesting and well written. I finished it in one day. The book describes Liz Seccuro's rape at a frat house during college and its subsequent effects on her life. Although drugged, Seccuro was able to identify her rapist. However, legal action was stalled by the college and legal system and no arrest was made. More than twenty years after the fact, the rapist, William Bebee, writes to Seccuro asking for forgiveness. Her response and the reasons for it are detailed in the book. I was facinated by the decisions made by Liz Seccuro and by her rapist and pondered this story long after I finished it. Highly recommended.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    This book was very interesting. It's a quick read and the author somehow manages to express her victimization, without overplaying the role of victim. The resulting story allows the reader a glimpse into Seccuro's brave decision to come forward several years after the tragedy without questionning her motives or being bogged down by the emotional turmoil the rape has caused. Not to say that isn't important, but I think the book is much better for it. I would recommend this book to every teenage girl who is headed off to college. In the blink of an eye your life can change, by no fault of your own, and Seccuro's book captures this well.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    I first read an excerpt of Liz Seccuro's book in a magazine and was intrigued by her story. This memoir tells the story of a woman who decided, after twenty years, to bring the man who raped her to justice. Her bravery is commendable, especially given the national media circus that she walked into. Seccuro's book is incredibly compelling and difficult to put down - I read it from cover to cover in one day. I hope that her story gives courage to other rape victims and serves as a warning to those who hurt others.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    A very well-written book that was hard to put down, especially amazing given the subject: Seccuro's brutal rape. It made me ask myself so many questions, questions I'm still turning over in my mind.Would I have written back, if the guy who raped me after I was drugged at a fraternity party was doing AA Step 9 and wrote to me? Would I have brought criminal charges against him? Could I have described the physical details of the rape in court? Would I have hired an investigator, only to learn I was gang-raped? And, finally, would I have been able to write a book about all this, including several graphic descriptions of what happened to me?I think the answer is no. I lack Liz Seccuro's courage. I hope the whole process was as healing for her as her book, as well as her work as a victims' rights activist, must be for others.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Crash Into Me by Liz Seccuro is enthralling. It's a quick read, but heartbreaking and inspiring. In her freshman year in college, her first time to be away from home, she is slipped a "mickey" and brutalized at a frat rush party. The incident is dismissed by the college and Liz finishes college and goes on with her life. Many years later she is contacted by her rapist. What follows is the story of bringing her attacker(s) to justice. It's truly heartbreaking to discover that our justice system still treats rape victims with little sympathy. I also found Liz's information on her panic attacks stemming from traumatic stress syndrome very interesting, as I suffer from panic attacks as well.This was an eye-opening read. Thanks again Library Thing for your Early Reviewers program.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    In Crash Into Me, Liz Seccuro has written a harrowing and heartbreaking memoir of her rape, and her prosecution of her rapist twenty years later. I found the University's and the Emergency Room's response to her assualt infuriating and inexcusable. For her sense of safety and her life to be shattered so many years later by unwanted contact with her rapist was a renewed assault. Her writing and her recollection in such detail made the story very insightful and very real. The trial transcripts were nerve-wracking to read, as the defense lawyer tried to undermine her credibility as she sat so close to her rapist. To learn the shocking truths of what really happened to her that night, and to know how many people were never held accountable for their crimes or their part in concealing them is outrageous. Liz is a very brave woman for standing up to her rapist, for sharing her story and for continuing to assist other victims of rape. I found her story riveting and read it in one sitting, and despite the difficult subject matter, this is a book I would highly recommend as both a cautionary tale and ultimately an uplifting example of courage.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Liz Seccuro was raped at a fraternity party when she was 17 years old. The University mishandled/covered up her report and the accused was not charged with any crime. 20 years later she recieves a letter of apology from her rapist. Ms. Seccuro writes in an easy to read format , detailing her choice to press charges against this man. Young people, male and female could benefit from reading her story. Hopefully rape survivor advocates such as Ms. Seccuro have and will continue to change the view point/understanding of this type of violent crime.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    This is an amazing book! I just received it tonight and I have already finished it. From the very first page I was drawn into Liz's story and I couldn't put the book down until I finished it. This is a memoir about a rape that occurred in 1984. She goes into graphic detail throughout the book, which drives the whole story home for the reader. She uses court documents as well scattered throughout the second half of the book which I loved because it brought reality to the book.I honestly could not put this book down. I haven't found a book that has grabbed me from page one in awhile now. Liz is a great writer who puts her emotions into what she is writing. The reader feels her emotions and I felt myself getting angry and sad throughout the book.I think this book is a must read. It brings the topic of rape, especially on college campuses, to the forefront. It shows the severe damage rape can do to a person's life, even years after it has occurred. Liz has a great deal of strength not only to bring her attacker to justice so many years laters but to also share her story with the world through this book.I highly recommend this book to everyone. From page one you will not be able to put it down. I think this is a great book for survivors of rape, friends and family of rape survivors, and even people who had never known anyone who has been assulted.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I read this book very quickly. The author draws you into her horrifying story and you are immediately hooked. Ms. Seccuro was raped at a fraternity house at UVA in the eighties. Although she reported it and tried to be heard as a victim, she was unsuccessful until twenty years after the rape when she received an email from the man responsible. He was asking for forgiveness as part of his twelve-step recovery. She was confronted again, then, with the horror of the rape and had to decide whether or not to pursue justice.I admire the writer. She clearly is a strong woman who has chosen to be successful and to rise above the horror.I guess the reason I didn't really think this book was fabulous is that I never felt a connection with the writer. She spoke of being flattened by grief or immobilized by the pain of the event, but somehow I didn't feel that grief or pain. Understand. I am completely in agreement with what she did. I know this must have been difficult to write and her experience was awful. But there is a lack of emotion or something that connects the reader to her story.I really do get, however, that she was willing to forgive him but that she wanted him to have a consequence for this act. I see this often with people - they think by saying "I'm sorry," that they have atoned. I don't think that is true. There need to be consequences and atonement and possibly the victim will forgive.

Book preview

Crash Into Me - Liz Seccuro

story.

CHAPTER 1

The Letter

The morning of September 8, 2005, began like any other. Isn’t it strange that the days that change your life immeasurably always seem to begin so ordinarily? Friends have talked about days in which they’ve experienced immense tragedy or great joy, and they remember how the day started with a decaffeinated latte, kisses, and an orange-juice normalcy that later seemed so bizarre in comparison. What is mundane and innocuous becomes alien.

My family—my husband, Mike, an investment banker, and our two-year-old daughter, Ava—was preparing for a much-needed three-week working vacation in East Hampton, where we had rented a house for the remainder of the month of September. I hadn’t wanted to deal with all of those summer people. We wanted peace, so we put off our getaway until after Labor Day.

We live in Greenwich, Connecticut, where life is usually easy and, frankly, filled with all of the material benefits that one could want, due to its high concentration of hedge fund operations and WASP pedigrees. The tree-lined main street, Greenwich Avenue, is home to some of the best shopping in the world; it’s often called a New England Rodeo Drive. Mere minutes from town, the Back Country boasts massive estates owned by the scions of money, both old and new, alongside the estates of members of the Hollywood elite—Ron Howard, Diana Ross, Mary Tyler Moore—who seek out the quiet enclave as a respite from the rigors of the typical Los Angeles entertainment business life. Here there are no paparazzi, no nightclubbing teen terrors. Perfectly highlighted and buffed trophy wives brush shoulders with preppy girls and young moms in the same boutiques and lunch spots. Convertible Saabs and Jeeps grace the town parking lots alongside more flashy cars such as Maseratis and Bentleys. There are no traffic lights in Greenwich; just police officers who wave the cars and pedestrians by. The old denizens of Greenwich felt traffic lights would be an aesthetic blight on the famous Avenue.

Mike and I moved here from New York City in 2004, when Ava was just over a year old. I had attended high school in Rye, New York, just five minutes away over the state line, so I was quite familiar with the community. Mike fell in love with its obvious seaside charms, great schools, and wonderful people, and with its proximity to Mike’s office and the city life we loved, it felt like a perfect compromise. Still, sometimes it’s nice to get away from even the nicest suburb. That morning, in my home office on the second floor, I furiously typed e-mails to clients and vendors, letting them know I’d be out of town, but of course, available via BlackBerry, laptop, and cell phone. I am an event planner, so this is business as usual. I fill my weeks planning all manner of weddings, birthday parties, corporate events, product launches, and children’s parties. I’ve had famous clients and clients who live next door. I have an intense passion for what I do; unfortunately, that means that tearing me away from a computer is a losing battle for anyone who tries to do so. Getting caught up in work, I tend to run a good half hour late to everything, and my own family vacation was no exception.

When I finally emerge from a steamy shower and jump into cargo pants and a tank top, I plunk a straw cowboy hat on my wet head as a final nod to the idea of vacation. Ava giggles uncontrollably at the unfamiliar sight of her vacation-mode mom. I double-check her diaper bag for the requisite supplies for the road, but then am drawn again to the monitor, just to check if the tiny e-mail envelope is blinking.

Liz! my husband yells up the stairs. Seriously, are you ever going to be getting into the car?! Mike is a man who is right on time, all the time. A dead ringer for the golfer Phil Mickelson, he is tightly wound and probably more in need of a break than anyone else I know. The Hamptons wouldn’t have been his first choice—it’s known as a playground of the East Coast elite, and Mike, a southerner, regards it with some reverse snobbery. Although he insists East Hampton is elitist, I suspect he loves the beaches in spite of himself. Still, he’s taking this vacation to indulge me, and I love him for it.

Just one more e-mail and I’m ready. Promise! I trill in my sweetest spouse-appeasing voice down the golf-green carpeted stairs. Tappety-tap, I e-mail a client who is getting married in October about some last-minute decisions on lighting and menu that I want her to make in the next forty-eight hours. Ava is ready to go, towheaded and sweet, wearing a pink-and-white-checked dress and tiny white sandals, her silky hair in a ponytail. She is playing in my office and prattling on about the beach, my hat, and the movie for the car ride. I imagine that she is wondering about this mysterious concept of vacation, since we have not taken one since she was fourteen weeks old. I turn to her, lift her off the ground, and spin her around, covering her tiny baby arms with kisses before setting her back down on my office floor. Flip-flops go on my feet and it is time to go.

Send. Save. Log off. Shut down. I scoop Ava up under my arm, jostle her onto my hip, and descend the stairs with a giant portfolio of color and fabric swatches and storyboards slung over the other shoulder. Mike gives me a wry look.

Vacation, huh? He stares at all the work I am schlepping, shakes his head, and gently guides me toward the front door before I can backtrack and double-check the stove, coffee maker, voice mails. Let’s go, honey. Seriously, come on. But as we fire up the car and queue up Finding Nemo for Ava, my obsessive-compulsive self takes over, yet again. We’re pulling down the circular driveway when I blurt it out.

Wait! I’ll bet the mailman’s been here. Get the mail, get the mail!

Oh, Jesus, Liz, why? It’ll just be a bunch of Restoration Hardware catalogs and bills. Can’t it wait?

No! You never know what’s there. Please, honey? Then we can go.

Mike sighs, puts the car in park, and ambles over to the mailbox in his khakis and polo shirt. Ava and I start singing a song, while she kicks the back of my seat and tries to grab the back of my cowboy hat. I peer out and see Mike rifling through the mail, which does indeed look to be a massive haul of catalogs, bills, and a few birthday party invitations for Miss Ava—a baby socialite, lately. I feel sheepish. Of course, he was right. The white metal mailbox slaps shut with a rusty squeak. Mike’s brow furrows a bit as he walks back toward the car. I give him my best movie-star smile in the hopes that he’s not utterly through with me.

Hey, you got a letter, he says with an odd look, sliding it across my legs.

I pick it up and flip it over. It’s an actual snail-mail letter—a relic!

Who writes letters anymore? I ask as my eyes scan the postmark.

Las Vegas. Funny, I know no one in Vegas. My eyes slide left to the return address, and the air is literally sucked out of my lungs. I struggle to catch just one cleansing breath, but it won’t come. There on the return address sticker, so neatly positioned in the upper left corner, is his name: William Beebe.

The faintly feminine handwriting reads Elizabeth Seccuro. How does he know my married name, and what’s with Elizabeth? No one addresses me by my full name, except strangers and receptionists at doctors’ offices.

My heart skips several beats, and when it starts up again, tears slide down my face.

William Beebe. My rapist.

Honey? Honey? What is it? Who is this person? What’s wrong? Talk, please talk to me. Talk, honey. Say something. What’s happening?

Mike is all over the place, looking wild-eyed and afraid. I must look as white as a sheet. I am subtly aware of rivulets of sweat escaping from under the silly cowboy hat. I start to hyperventilate and rummage in my handbag for a Xanax. Ava is in a tailspin; she can sense her mama is wrecked. I can distantly hear Mike try to calm her down. After what seems like an eternity, I flip the letter over. Out wafts the sickly scent of vanilla as I unfold a burgundy-bordered sheet of ivory paper. I blink, and then I read.

Sept. 4, 2005

Dear Elizabeth:

In October 1984 I harmed you. I can scarcely begin to understand the degree to which, in your eyes, my behavior has affected you in its wake. Still, I stand prepared to hear from you about just how, and in what ways you’ve been affected; and to begin to set right the wrong I’ve done, in any way you see fit.

He invites me to contact him at any time. He signs it, Most Sincerely Yours, Will Beebe.

Out slides a shiny white business card with a red and blue rendering of the Statue of Liberty. It reads Liberty Realty and William N. Beebe, Realtor, with his address, phone, cell, and e-mail address below. It flutters to my feet. Perhaps I am imagining this whole thing and it’s some sick prank. Silently I hand the letter to my husband, who has calmed down for Ava’s sake and mine. He reads it with no expression. He knows. He begins to nod slowly. I can hear the hum of the car engine again, and the sounds of Nemo drifting from the backseat. Normal sounds; everyday sounds. Slowly, I exhale as the Xanax starts to take effect, but within a minute or two, the sobbing takes over, silently wracking my body. Let’s go, I say. Mike puts the car in gear, while looking at me intently as if to ask whether or not we should leave. I read his look and nod a silent yes.

Pulling off down the circular driveway toward town and I-95 South, I cease crying and go completely silent. Ava falls asleep after thirty minutes and we turn off Nemo. I just sit and stare ahead at the road. I’m numb. It isn’t until we reach Exit 72 in Manorville, Long Island, some three hours later that I come to life again. Can you imagine this? I ask Mike again and again.

I know, sweetie, I know. It’s terrible, he responds repeatedly.

I mean, have you read this thing? I continue to ask, incredulously.

We stop at a Starbucks. I pace back and forth outside on the patio, Ava on my hip. She’s eating a cookie and I’m chugging a black iced tea and clutching the letter in a sweaty palm.

Mike encourages me to climb back into our car and we drive on to our rental in the Northwest Woods of East Hampton. I’m tired and dazed, but still very relieved to be away. Away for me now means something completely new. It means away from that mailbox. Away from the possibility that Beebe could show up in person at my home. Away is good, and we settle into a routine.

We spend most of the first week together, but Mike’s job requires him to return to the city to work some days out of his office. I had hoped that he could stay the whole time, to protect me from … myself. Outwardly, I seem like a calm, tanned, and happy mom on vacation, but the demons swirling in my mind are slowly taking over, and memories I have tried to suppress for so many years are now as clear as the movie I rented last week. In fact, the memories are just like a movie on a constant loop. I see myself as a freshman at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville. Over and over, in slow motion, I see myself struggling under this stranger and I cannot for the life of me press the STOP button. That’s the only way I know how to describe it.

When Mike is around during the week, we get a sitter and go to dinner, then walk the beach at Ditch Plains in Montauk for hours, snapping photographs or just simply touching fingers and breathing, looking at each other for a safe haven, a decision, something. The letter goes with me everywhere.

One night, yet another of insomnia (a legacy of the rape that has lasted for over twenty years), I go swimming at three A.M., blasting Coldplay’s X&Y for an hour by the pool. Exhausted, I dry off, throw on pajamas, brush my teeth, and stumble into our bed, leaving the letter on the terrace dining table where we have been eating grilled fish and burgers each night. Sleeping fitfully, I am not aware that morning has arrived until I hear a yelp from the deck, where Mike is cleaning up from our Scrabble game the previous night. The humidity on Long Island is legendary and oppressive, and my letter is now soaked, the ink on the outside running in tiny streams down the envelope. I’ve read the letter countless times by now and it’s committed to memory, but for whatever reason, I feel I have to preserve that piece of paper. We rush it inside like a trauma victim and blot it with dishtowels. It dries with a crunchy finish, but it’s intact, and the spidery handwriting is still clear.

From then on I’m even more vigilant, rarely allowing the letter out of my sight. (When I go through snapshots now from that late-summer vacation, I see a photo of me in a bikini, with a pink crocodile bag in front of me, and, yep, that’s the letter right on top.) I won’t even go swimming in the ocean unless someone is watching the bag with the letter. This means that Mike and I have to take turns swimming with Ava, the three of us never playing in the surf together as a family. The letter goes out to dinner with us. I unfold it and surreptitiously read it in restroom stalls all over East Hampton, just to make sure it’s still the same and hasn’t morphed into something else. If you recite or read anything enough, it begins to lose meaning. I realize I am slowly—well, maybe quickly—losing my mind. But after thinking and stewing and not sleeping, I’ve made a decision: I am going to reply. I need to know he’s actually in Las Vegas and not creeping outside my door. That’s it. End of story.

I’m not sure Mike would support this decision, so I decide not to tell him until after I’ve done it. My rationalization is that this happened to me before meeting him and it is my right to handle the situation however I please. I don’t feel guilt, just a sense of great purpose.

On September 19, 2005, after putting Ava to bed, I’m sitting with my legs dangling in the pool, staring at my shell-pink pedicure in the turquoise water. Puffing surreptitiously on a contraband Marlboro Ultra Light (I quit years ago), I click out the e-mail on my BlackBerry with my thumbs.

SUBJECT: Your letter

Mr. Beebe: I am in receipt of your letter. Please tell me how you can live with yourself. Tell me why you did what you did to me. My life was terribly altered by the fact that you raped me and I want to know why you did it and why you are reaching out to me now. Why didn’t you just confess to Dean Canevari? Every decision in my life has been colored by wanting to feel safe. Now I don’t feel safe again. How can you live with yourself? What do you want from me? Do you know what kind of a mess I became?!

I don’t sign it. I reason he’ll know who it’s from.

I look up at the trees, exhaling the pungent smoke. The backlight on my BlackBerry goes off and I cannot read my words. Panicked, I hit a button and they reappear.

After five minutes of swirling and splashing my legs around in the pool, I hit SEND.

The little checkmark, which means my mail has been sent, appears on the tiny screen.

Immediately, I regret my decision.

During the week, Mike is back in the city and Ava and I spend time together at the beach and the pool. She calls me Mama Dolphin in the pool and I try to impress her with some dolphin-style cavorting and diving. She thinks this is hilarious. I put her in the stroller and take her shopping in town. Retail therapy is a tried-and-true salve for me and I resurrect and polish off this talent with a vengeance. We go to Pomodoro’s for pizza and spaghetti and read Clam I Am by Dr. Seuss almost every night. She loves it because she loves all things ocean.

Mama—read the part about the ocean being gray!

She’s a sweet angel. I hate putting her down for the night because I am left to go downstairs to my room or to the pool with my questions, a BlackBerry, the letter, some fine Long Island wine, and no one to talk to. But I don’t want to talk about it. Yet. I told Mike after sending the e-mail that I had replied for my own sense of security, and he just nodded, not pressing me further. But as we try to enjoy our vacation, I obsessively check the BlackBerry. My biggest fear is that my time here in East Hampton will end and I will return to Greenwich to find William Beebe inside the house, hiding in my broom closet, the classic bogeyman. Or, worse yet, standing on my front porch, looking pathetic and

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