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Editor's note: This story contains explicit language and graphic descriptions of sexual violence and a murder investigation. She didn't like being alone. It had been weeks since she had been attacked there, but the apartment still felt to her like a crime scene, a place that had been turned over and rummaged through.
She had called the police on the night of the attack, when she finally convinced herself that she might be safe. She had gone to the local hospital and submitted to an examination. She had opened the Yellow Pages and called a resource new to the town where she had gone to school and now lived, something called a rape crisis center. But the police seemed to want more from her, even after she had told them everything she could remember. The hospital had run out of rape kits, and the nurse who examined her was rude, she thought, "mocking.
Karen felt as though she were being pushed aside and forgotten. The attack she had endured was inescapably real but, in its aftermath, she faced a sense of unreality so powerful that she kept in her pocket the scant newspaper clipping about her assault to remind herself that it really happened. The apartment provided no refuge. When she discovered that photos she kept of herself were missing, she knew they had been taken but couldn't be sure by whom. Nothing had gone untouched. When the phone rang, the call came through a line that a few weeks before had been cut by the blade of a knife.
She had heard from the police that there were others who had been attacked recently. She had heard some of the other women had received phone calls after their assault, possibly from the assailant.
