What would a man, even if he was a police detective, know about rape? Well, I've learned plenty. Because it happened to me. No matter what anyone says, it's not about sex. And it's not my fault because of how I look. It's about somebody getting their kicks from dominating and humiliating someone else. Like that sick freak, JoJo, with his orange paint. Marking his territory.
The worst part isn't what he did to my body, it's what he did to my soul. Now I can't stop seeing shapes in shadows or flinching from a lover's touch. But I'm not anyone's territory anymore. Because I've also learned you don't have to be big or strong to bring a man down. You just have to know how to hit him.
Now JoJo's back and Starsky and Hutch want me to tell a room full of strangers what he did to me. The most mortifying details it took me months to tell my own mother. Help put him away, they say, before he gets to someone else. What would they know about it? Yet I see the same fire blazing in two sets of blue eyes. I can almost believe they care.