Page 125 of Release

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Then

“You ever do something so bad you’re afraid you’ll go to Hell for it?” Ellen whispers.

We lie twined together in my bed after making love, the sheet draped over us, skin-to-skin. I love playing with her hair and twirl a lock around my fingers now. I blame myself being come-drunk for my answer.

“I don’t believe in Hell because I already survived it and killed my demon.”

She tips her head back and looks up at me. She has the most gorgeous green eyes, eyes that seem to see to the very depths of my soul.

We’re barely a week into our freshman year of college and I’m already in love with my roommate.

“You mean metaphorically,” she says.

I shake my head.

She shivers. “Me, too.”

Protective outrage fills me. “What happened?”

It takes what feels like forever for her to finally speak, and when she does, it’s in a whisper. “You can never tell anyone.”

“I won’t.”

“I mean it. No one. Never.”

“I promise.” She looks doubtful. “Tell me.”

She sucks in a deep breath and this time, she barely breathes the words. “I killed someone. But he deserved it. He was evil.”

I kiss her. Then I look into her eyes. “You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”

I’m not sure if her shock is from my complete acceptance of her, or if it’s because I’m admitting my own guilt.

Eventually, she speaks again. “You know The Hermitage?”

“Yeah, but I’ve never been there.”

She scowls. “How have you never been there? I thought all the schools take field trips there?”

I point to myself. “Kentucky.”

“Oh, yeah. Right. Sorry.” She takes another breath. “It’s an old plantation, and they’ve got the house, and the grounds, and a garden, outbuildings—the whole thing. We went in tenth grade. Except my best friend, Shelby. She didn’t go.”

I feel a little jealous over this friend I’ve already heard about but haven’t met. “Why didn’t she go?”

“She stayed home sick.”

I suspect there’s a reason, so I ask. “She wasn’t sick?”

Ellen shakes her head. “No. She didn’t go because of Scott Mayfair. He was going. He was in a different history class than we were, but he was one of the kids going the day we went, and she didn’t want to risk him being on the same bus as we were. Or being there with him.”

I think I know where this is going. “What’d he do to her?”

She swallows, nervous. “The weekend before, she went to a party I told her not to go to, and he raped her.”

Motherfucker. “She didn’t report it to the police?”