Feel No Evil

By Stephanie Kepke

Could you forgive the unforgivable?

In 2014, twenty-one years after Kate Berg survived a vicious sexual assault, her attacker, Vin Merdone, shows up as someone she may know on Facebook. After overcoming an eating disorder sparked by the assault, Kate worked hard to make sure that the sinister thread of darkness woven through the fabric of her existence never wrapped itself around her brain again. But Kate knows it's a gossamer line between well and unwell, and she is about to cross it. Seeing Vin sends her tidy life tumbling like a house of cards—and brings a long-buried traumatic loss to the surface. This is the fight of her life, and she won't emerge without a few scars.

When Part Two opens in April 2019, Vin has shot back into Kate's orbit in the most unexpected way, derailing Kate's hard-earned progress. With the #MeToo movement exploding, will Kate finally get the chance to expose Vin for who he is, after he's lived a life free from the consequences of his actions? Perfect for the age of #MeToo, Feel No Evil is a page-turning, addictive, dark—and yet hopeful—tale that celebrates the transformative power of forgiveness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephanie Kepke
• Release date: Oct 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9780997686180

Stephanie Kepke

An award winning author and blogger, Stephanie Kepke’s second grade teacher told her she should be a writer and she hasn’t wavered in her path since. In her past life—before kids—Stephanie was an arts reporter and music journalist. She lives in New York on Long Island with her husband, her three very active boys and two slightly crazy rescue dogs (one of whom is three-legged). She lives right in between the Long Island Sound and the Atlantic Ocean—and loves to have her toes in the sand.

Book preview

Feel No Evil

A NOVEL

STEPHANIE KEPKE

COPYRIGHT 2020 STEPHANIE KEPKE

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

Inquiries about additional permissions should be directed to: [e-mail]

Cover Design by Stephanie Kepke

Proofreading by J.C. Wing

Layout by Adam Bodendieck

ISBN: 978-0-9976861-5-9

EPUB ISBN: 978-0-9976861-6-6

Don’t Give Up: Written by Ryan Star, Used with Permission

Copyright: Don’t Give Up, Ryan Star LTD, 2017

RAINN Used with Permission

Table of Contents

COVER

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT PAGE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

DEDICATION

AUTHOR’S NOTE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you to my family, Jeff, Drew, Joshua and Aidan for your support and love. I appreciate all of you very much. Thank you to my mom, Beverly Kepke, and my siblings, Jodi Schinz; David Kepke; and Shari Morris, and their families. And thank you to all of my in-laws. Thank you to J.C. Wing for your eagle-eyed proofreading. Thank you to Adam Bodendieck for your expert layout. Thank you to Jill McCorkle for teaching me lessons that have stayed with me for decades and for your continued friendship. Your books always inspire me. Thank you to Ryan Star for allowing your amazing song, Don’t Give Up, to be a part of this story. It fits perfectly. And thank you to Serena Lingo. Thank you to Rachel DeLadesmo and RAINN for letting me use your incredible organization in this story. A huge thank you to everyone who read this book (even just a few chapters) and everyone who chimed in on the many versions of the cover I designed (many did both): Melissa Levine; Shari Goldberg; Liz Danziger; Scott Syat; Joy Weiser; Lucia Reichard; Galit Segal; Cheryl Popiel; Aliza Greenberg; John Giannone; Kathy Barstow; Randy Brown; Steve Osterweil; Heather Peretz; Amy Olsen; Judy Karul; Adam Weinstock; Jeannie Feldman; Beth Tabak; Jennifer Federmann; Dr. Victoria Frisse; Beth Meyer; Sharon Balkman; Kaycee John; Teresa Medina; Beth Foley; Julie Sebell; Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher; Lisa Hindi; Donna Sansaricq; Nina Gilbert; Leslie Kniffin; Michele Santoro; Gina Lewis; Deb Baer; Lisa Zimmerman; Stephanie Horn; and Tracy Gorman. I’m so sorry if I’ve missed anyone—I still appreciate you!

Thank you to my early Kickstarter supporters (before this book went to production): Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher; Rachel Strehlow; Caryn Wolin; Patricia Raifer; Vivian Chen; Kathy Barstow; Randy Brown and Shari Morris.

Most importantly, thank you to everyone—friends, family, readers—who have supported my writing and encouraged me. It means the world to me.

For Survivors Everywhere:

May you rise up and be heard.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This book started as a short story a decade ago, but readers wanted more. At first, it was an arduous task to turn it into a novel—I didn’t see a clear journey for Kate, and the subject matter was dark and close to the bone. I set it aside, and finished a novel, Goddess of Suburbia (and a film script adaptation of the novel); a book of essays, Boys, Dogs and Chaos (and a one-woman show based on those essays); and had two novellas published, as well—A New Life and You & Me. When the #MeToo movement exploded, along with rise of political divisiveness in our country, Kate’s story suddenly became crystal clear. It was then that I reached out to RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network) and requested to use their organization in a pivotal scene. This added to the narrative, of course, but that wasn’t the most important thing. The most important thing to me was to raise awareness of how survivors of sexual assault can get the help they need. If you are a survivor, call 800.656.HOPE (4673) or visit https://www.rainn.org/. They can help.

If you’re battling an eating disorder, there’s hope and help for you, as well. Visit https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/help-support/contact-helpline, even if all seems hopeless. You can call, chat or text. You can also reach out to me on my Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/stephaniekepkewriter. If you need someone to listen, send me a direct message. You’ll get an auto reply first, but I will respond. Although many readers have reached out to me about my essays on eating disorders, I’ve never included this in an author’s note. But, here’s the thing…I hope this is more than just a book—I hope it makes a difference. If this book sets even one reader on the path to healing; if it makes even one reader feel less alone, all of my hard work will be worth it. Thank you for reading.

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

April 2014

2:21. 2:22. 2:23. ALL I COULD see were the digital numbers of the clock. All I could hear was his menacing voice, Is it going to be hard or soft? All I could say was, Please stop. Please don’t. See no evil. Hear no evil. Speak no evil. They forgot feel no evil. All I could feel were his hands pushing down on my shoulders and the searing pain ripping through my core.

I close the journal—the flowers on its cover faded; the paper almost silk-like from age. It has been over twenty years—twenty-one years, to be exact—since I wrote those words. I wish that they were fiction from a long ago college creative writing class, but they aren’t—they’re real, and every year on the anniversary of my assault I pull out that journal and read that entry. After I read it, I put the journal back in my old leather briefcase on top of my closet and drink a glass of wine. It’s my way of marking the anniversary and moving forward. My husband, Caleb, keeps our kids downstairs or even takes them out for a slice of pizza or ice cream, so I can read it alone, in peace. So I can shed a tear or two.

I know that it might seem odd for a forty-one year old woman to still think about something that happened so long ago, but if you’ve ever been assaulted, you know that the fact of what happened never really goes away. It just sits like a rotten little bit of food in the back of the refrigerator. The smell will eventually take over the whole thing if you ignore it, so every year I pay attention to it—I take out that rotten bit of food, throw it in the symbolic garbage and try not to think about it, until it starts festering again a year later. It’s an odd ritual, to be sure, but one that works for me or at least it did work, until this year.

It’s a cruel joke being raped on Tax Day—for at least a few months before commercials always reminded me that the day is coming. Don’t forget, April fifteenth is right around the corner, a voice would ominously intone. It was always everywhere, warning people of the day of doom. It’s not as much anymore with extensions and early filing, but for me it’s still the lead up to reading that passage. I know I’ll pull down the briefcase; I know I’ll open it to the same page; and I know that I’ll put it back and lock down any thoughts of that April fifteenth so many years ago for another twelve months. But as I put back the briefcase, I know that this year is different. This year I might not be able to lock it down. This year, the person who destroyed my life, Vin Merdone, just popped up on Facebook as someone I might know three days before April fifteenth, and I realized that while he damn near ruined my life, his life just went on as happy as could be.

With morbid curiosity I had clicked through his profile pictures. There were pictures of him smiling on a beach; swimming with dolphins; lazing on a lounge; emerging from a pool; and one that looked to be from several years earlier of him holding up a beer, no doubt saying cheers to the person taking the picture. He looked happy and tan—and, quite honestly, had a slight menace about him, muscles bulging beneath the tattoos covering his arms—in all of them. The worst photo by far was the one of him kneeling next to a large shark lying in a pool of blood. The smile on his face was broad and satisfied, a cruel glint in his eye. I quickly moved on, the knot in my stomach tightening. One glance at his About told me that he now makes Miami his home. It didn’t look like he had a wife and kids, thankfully, but it did look like he was living a dream life—wealth and luxury abounded in all the photos, leaving me envious and angry in equal measure.

And the shock of seeing his face after all these years cut right through me—sure, he was older, but the set of his jaw remained, the curl of his lip was the same. He still had a full head of hair—slicked back in most photos, giving him a look of smarmy intensity. When I clicked on our mutual friend, shock morphed into anger. The thought that my old friend, Sean, the friend who introduced us that fateful night, the friend who apologized so profusely and swore up and down that he didn’t know Vin was violent, the friend I thought I loved was still friends with this person, even on Facebook, filled me with a feeling I couldn’t quite name—rage, surprise, despair. Or perhaps it was all of those rolled into one.

I quickly unfriended Sean and started to block Vin. Only I couldn’t. It was like passing a car crash on the highway—I just had to look at it. I had to try to make sense of the man he is now, so maybe I could understand the boy he was then. Staring at his grinning face, I once again berated myself for only filing an anonymous police report—one that went on his record but didn’t get him arrested.

Even worse, looking at those pictures, I spun back to that night. I had been drinking—I always admitted that, but I would never agree that drinking made me a victim, that anything other than violence made me a victim. Sean was hosting a party in his dorm room, and Vin was there. After we talked for most of the party, Vin asked me to take a walk. Up until that point in my life, my sophomore year in college, I had only encountered people with good intentions. Even the drunk guys who hit on me at parties, took a no in stride and moved on to the next girl. If I did go home with someone, they too took my no in stride and were content to just fool around a bit before I went back to my dorm room. I had never slept with anyone at college, and I was proud of my ability to stand my ground. That all changed on an early spring night when I was twenty years old.

Vin was charming, regaling me with stories of growing up in the city, a hardscrabble kid who spent every day after high school training at a run-down boxing gym, but still worked his way into a scholarship to our small, liberal arts college in the country. He wanted to be a journalist, a music writer, and promised to take me to see his favorite band the next time they played in town. I liked the juxtaposition of tough guy and creative soul, so when he asked me to take a walk with him to look at the stars an easy sure slipped from my lips. Why wouldn’t I?

As soon as we stepped outside, he asked if I minded making a stop at his dorm. The spring night had turned chilly and he wanted to get a sweatshirt. For days, weeks, even months after, I beat myself up over the fact that I didn’t just stay in the lobby. When he said, Do you want to come up? I should have said, No, I’ll wait here.

I should have run back to my dorm, but I didn’t. I went up to his room and my life was never the same. As soon as we stepped in, he closed the door and locked it. He pushed me on the bed and climbed on top of me. It was so sudden and so shocking that I didn’t even know what to say, Uh, uh, uh, I spluttered. Then I managed to roll out from under him and bolt toward the door.

He stopped me, putting his arm up over my head, holding the door shut as I tried to pull it. He turned me toward the full-length mirror behind the door and ran his hand down the side of my face, So beautiful, he whispered. And I bet you’re a real firecracker in bed—they say redheads are wild. So, why are you fighting me?

Let me go, I hissed. Then I screamed. My screams brought feet running towards the door, followed by banging on it and a loud and deep, Open up! As I tried to yell for help, Vin covered my mouth and only a muffled whimper came out.

Go away, Vin barked at the person, and he did. To this day I wonder who that person was—who listened to that Go away and decided that it was more important than my screams. It didn’t matter of course. No one else bothered to try to save me—not even when Vin dragged me out to the bathroom a few minutes later, growling, I need to take a piss, and you have to come with me. I don’t trust you to stay if I leave you here alone. Of course, he was right. I would have left in a second.

Our dorms had co-ed bathrooms, so no one thought twice about a guy and a girl heading into the bathroom together. Even though there were tears streaming down my face, even though his hand gripped the top of my arm as he dragged me. I stood in that stall while Vin urinated, my face to the metal wall, trying desperately to think of a way to escape. If I went under the stall would he turn, showering me with urine and pull me back by my leg? Would he catch me and smash my face into the wall? I didn’t know.

There was nothing I could do but stand there. Of course, after, I went through all of the possible scenarios in my head obsessively. If I had just slid under the stall and run out, someone surely would have helped me. If I had screamed loudly enough, maybe someone would have come to my rescue. But that night I was paralyzed. I was a twenty-year-old girl, and I just didn’t see a way out.

Back in Vin’s room, he pushed me back on that bed with black satin sheets that rose up in my dreams afterward like they had a life of their own. He held me down so hard that the next day I was left with purple fingerprints ringing both of my shoulders. I remember going to my favorite teacher, my creative writing professor, two days later not saying a word, just pulling my shirt back to show her my shoulders, and she knew right away. She sent me to the Women’s Counseling Center on campus, and I told my story.

My counselor marveled that I never cried. How are you so strong? she asked every time I came to see her. What you’ve been through is so horrendous, Kate, even the strongest person would cry. I think you really need to cry, she implored, so I never went back.

I called my high school boyfriend with whom I had broken up just a few months before, but remained close, and told him what had happened. I heard a loud thud and he said, Sorry, Kate, I just punched a hole through the wall. I’ll need to call you back. The next weekend he drove five hours to my school from his. When he arrived, he asked around and found out where Vin lived. He put Vin’s head through a wall rather than just his fist.

Violence begat more violence as little by little people heard about what happened. A friend who had a crush on me and lived on the floor below Vin called me up a few days after and said, Hey, Kate, I’m smoking a victory joint. Just beat the crap out of Vin. So, will you go out with me now?

You don’t get it, I whispered. No one got it. My roommate, Heather, told me not to press charges because I would just get blamed since I had been drinking. Let the boys keep beating him up, she said between cracks of gum. That’s vigilante justice, the best kind. Like Steven Seagal. He’s so hot.

I didn’t care about vigilante justice. I didn’t care about much of anything. I dyed my fiery copper locks the muddiest brown I could find on the drugstore shelves. It took a year to grow it out, and even then, I had to cut it to shoulder length from halfway down my back just to get what was left off. My mom was furious with me, but I couldn’t explain why I did it. In the weeks after the attack, I still took the hottest showers I could stand, trying to wash traces of Vin off of me, even after they were long gone. I wandered around campus, hollow eyed, lack of sleep threatening to derail my studies and my sanity. I couldn’t go back to the Women’s Center because I didn’t cry in front of people, and I wasn’t about to start. I couldn’t talk to my friends because they didn’t understand.

The only person who seemed to listen to me was Sean, even though he was the one who had introduced me to Vin. I had stumbled back to his room that night, and he held me all night long as I trembled and bit my lip, holding back tears. He didn’t try to beat up Vin. He just listened to me, no doubt feeling guilty about introducing us.

It was Sean’s idea to file the anonymous police report. He reasoned that if Vin did it to anyone else, that report would show up and he’d get kicked out of school for sure. He went with me to the campus police station and held my hand while I waited to fill out paperwork. That night, I slept on the couch in his dorm room. He tucked me in with a soft blanket and kissed my forehead. In fact, most nights I slept on the couch in his dorm room under that soft blanket. It was the only place I felt safe.

Slowly, I fell in love with Sean, because he was the only person who didn’t answer violence with violence, who didn’t judge me. But we didn’t date. I was terrified of losing him if things went sour, and I wasn’t ready to date anyway. Heather couldn’t understand why I didn’t tell Sean how I felt. He’s the one I go to when anything goes wrong, I explained.

That’s the person you’re supposed be with, she insisted. "Your boyfriend should be the person you go to for everything. I just don’t understand why you’re so stubborn." She shook her head.

It was simple to me—if I dated Sean, and we had a fight, to whom would I run? No one, because there was no one else who could comfort me like he did. Yes,