We find two chairs tucked away from the main flow of customers, and Rebecca sits with her back to the wall, her eyes constantly scanning the space like she's expecting Thad to materialize out of nowhere. The fear in her body language makes my stomach turn.
"How long were you together?" I ask.
"Two years. Junior and senior year at Yale." She's gripping her coffee cup so tightly her knuckles are white. "It started out perfect. He was charming, attentive, and everything I thought I wanted. My parents loved him. My friends thought I was lucky."
"When did it change?"
"Gradually. So gradually I didn't notice at first." She takes a shaky breath. "He started suggesting I spend less time with my friends. Said they were a bad influence, that they didn't understand our relationship. Then it was my family—he'd pick fights before family dinners, make me feel guilty for choosing them over him. By senior year, I barely talked to anyone except Thad."
I feel my stomach clench. "He isolated you."
She nods. "Completely. He wanted to know where I was all the time. Who I was with. What I was doing. He'd show up places I didn't tell him I'd be, claim it was a coincidence. He put tracking software on my phone." Her voice is getting tighter, more strained. "I thought it meant he loved me. That he was just protective."
She's quiet for a long moment, and when she speaks again, her voice is barely above a whisper. "When I tried to break up with him the first time—we'd been fighting about something stupid—I told him I needed space. He grabbed my arm so hard he left bruises. Told me I wasn't allowed to leave him. That I belonged to him."
The words make my blood run cold. I can hear Thad saying them, can imagine the expression on his face—the cold fury, the absolute certainty that he has the right to control another person's life. I feel my arm ache where my own bruises are.
"I should have left then," Rebecca continues. "But he apologized. Cried. Said he'd never do it again. And I believed him because I wanted to believe him. Leaving meant admitting I'd wasted two years."
"But you did leave eventually."
"After graduation. I got a job offer in Boston, and I took it without telling him. Just packed my things and left while he was at work." She's shaking now, and I want to reach out and touch her hand, offer some kind of comfort, but I'm afraid any sudden movement will make her bolt. "He found me three days later. Showed up at my apartment. And when I told him it was over, that I wasn't coming back?—"
She stops, and the silence stretches out between us, heavy with everything she's not saying. Then she swallows hard, and continues.
“He beat me badly enough that my neighbor called 911. I spent two days in the hospital. I had broken ribs, a fracturedcheekbone, and internal bleeding." She pulls out her phone with shaking hands and opens the Photos app. "I kept pictures. The police told me to document everything."
She hands me the phone, and I have to force myself to look at the images. Rebecca's face was swollen and bruised beyond recognition, her torso covered in purple and black marks. Hospital paperwork documenting the injuries. And then screenshots of text messages from Thad's number, threats that escalate into something terrifying.
You can't just leave me.
I'll find you wherever you go.
If I can't have you, no one will.
Your family will pay for this.
"I tried to press charges," Rebecca says. "But Thad's father knew the district attorney. The case disappeared. And then Thad's lawyers contacted me with a settlement offer—a substantial amount of money in exchange for signing an NDA and dropping all charges."
"You took it." I’m not judging her—it sounds like exactly the kind of thing that a person would agree to in order to make a nightmare like that end. I hope she understands that.
"They made it clear what would happen if I didn't. They had photos of my parents' house. My little sister's school schedule. They knew where my mother worked, what route my father took to the office." Her voice breaks. "They said accidents happen all the time. That it would be a shame if something happened to my family because I couldn't let go of the past."
The casual cruelty of it makes me feel sick. "So you ran."
"I moved to Portland and changed my name. I cut off contact with everyone from my old life because I was terrified Thad would use them to find me." She takes her phone back and closes the Photos app with shaking hands. "I've spent ten years looking over my shoulder. Ten years afraid to date anyone seriouslybecause what if Thad finds out? What if he decides I broke the NDA? What if?—"
She stops herself, and when she looks at me, her eyes are full of pity. "You're engaged to him. Which means you're already in deeper than I ever was. Which means?—"
"Which means I need to know everything." I lean forward, and my voice is steady despite the fear coursing through me. "Do you know if there was ever anyone else like this?”
Rebecca's expression darkens. "There was a girl before me. Jennifer Windsor. She dated Thad sophomore year. I didn't know her well, but I heard stories after I left Thad—that she'd tried to break up with him and he wouldn't let her go, that she was planning to file a restraining order."
"What happened to her?"
"She fell from her apartment balcony. Fourth floor. The police ruled it an accident—said she'd been drinking and she must have lost her balance." Rebecca's voice is flat, emotionless, like she's reciting facts she's memorized. "But Jennifer didn't drink. Everyone who knew her said that. And her roommate told people that Thad had been at the apartment that night, that they'd been fighting."
The implication hangs in the air between us, terrible and unavoidable.
