Leslie Morgan Steiner
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At 22, Leslie Morgan Steiner seemed to have it all: good looks, a Harvard diploma, a glamorous job in New York City. Plus a handsome, funny boyfriend who adored her. But behind her façade of success, this golden girl hid a dark secret. She'd made a mistake shared by millions: she fell in love with the wrong person.
At first, Leslie and Conor seemed perfect together. Then came the fights she tried to ignore: he pushed her down the stairs, choked her during an argument, and threatened her with a gun. Several times, he came close to making good on his threat to kill her. With each attack, Leslie lost another piece of herself. Why didn't she leave? She stayed because she loved him. Gripping and utterly compelling, Crazy Love takes you inside the violent, devastating world of abusive love and makes you feel the power and powerlessness of abuse that can take place anywhere and to anyone. Crazy Love draws you in -- and never lets you go.
soft cotton up with my fists. I could feel him get harder and his breath came faster as he got closer to climax. He closed his eyes; his long lashes brushed his cheeks. Then, without opening his eyes, he lifted his chest and rested his elbows easily on the bed to free his arms. His breath got shallow and rapid. He carefully placed his hands around my neck. He suddenly opened his cobalt eyes and looked into mine. His hands tightened around my throat. I could feel the excitement raging through
Once we crossed the Vermont state line, the temperature dropped ten degrees. Gone were the office buildings and McDonald’s restaurants we’d been flying past. The highway narrowed to a two-lane road cut out of jagged rock walls. Thick oaks, interspersed with pines, filled the median so we could not see or hear traffic going back to Boston. We passed a yellow MOOSE CROSSING diamond. After about twenty minutes, Sylvia spotted the blue-green outline of the mountains. At a toll booth Dad rolled down
out laughing. By nine, our street was quiet and dark. Conor cleaned the kitchen while I changed into one of my flowered nightgowns and washed up in the house’s lone bathroom, tiny and narrow, covered in faded pink tile, with a small broken window that hadn’t opened in several years. I crawled under the covers to read in bed. The lights were on only in our bedroom, a first-floor room with three large windows that faced the street. Directly across from us was the neighbor’s three-story white
waiting until I stood at the door, dressed, made-up, perfumed. So I shouldn’t have been surprised. But this time I was. I knew better than to show how I felt. I put down the red wool sweater I was folding. He stood in the doorway, still watching me. “I said we’re not going.” I nodded to let him know I’d heard. I did not ask why he didn’t want to go. Or tell him how hurt I was that he wanted to cancel his birthday trip. He went back to the living room. I imagined holding hands with Conor on a
judge what happened to make you file the original restraining order, and why you want it made final. Trust me, it’s a brief, routine proceeding. When your husband gets here, I’ll talk to him so I can explain both sides to the judge if necessary. I am here to moderate—I’m paid by the Women’s Legal Defense Fund—and to make sure the judge hears your side in addition to your husband’s.” Although in good legal fashion she was trying to be objective and factual, I sensed that she was trying to protect