Page 71 of Bitter Truths

The following day, I head over to the bookstore and sit toward the back, staring into nothing as I work up the courage to go to Randy’s house. Although I suspect Randy regretted what he did the minute he did it, instead of stopping or preventing the others from finishing, he watched with a pale face from the sidelines.

Is it possible he still lives with regret? I’m about to find out.

I drive over to his house—he lives in a small rambler on the opposite side of town—and exit my mom’s car.

Staring at the facade coldly, I knock on the door. A tired-looking woman with a cigarette hanging from her mouth and wearing a hideous sweater looks me over impatiently and says, “Randy’s downstairs.”

Bewildered, I stare at her, not expecting it to be so easy, but when she waves at me, I don’t hesitate and step down the stairs into a rather creepy basement. It’s dark and cool, one large room with an old couch positioned before a television.

Immediately, I see the back of Randy’s head as he plays a game and shouts into his headset, “C’mon fucker, shoot him!”

For a moment, all I can do is stare as memories assail me until I’m trembling under the weight of them. I can’t see what’s before me, only an endless sea of stars that I stared at blankly. What was once a haven full of warm memories is now a fucking nightmare, and I hate those fucking stars with a vicious intensity.

Be careful what you wish for.

“Fuck!” Randy says, and I flinch, coming back to the present with a brutal lurch.

Inhaling shakily, I pull myself together and step around the couch. He’s so caught up in his game he doesn’t so much as look up, so I step in front of the television and push away the fucking nightmares while I glare at my rapist.

“Hey,” he shouts, leaning around me and pressing his remote control viciously.

“Randy,” I say firmly, and he trails off, glancing up slack-jawed before he drops the remote altogether.

“Halsey?” he whispers.

“In the flesh.”

With wide eyes, he meets my hard stare before he looks away, heat flooding his cheeks.

Randy is short and stocky. He used to have muscular arms and a buzz cut for football. Now, his hair hangs to his shoulders in greasy, lanky clumps against his forehead and he could use a good shave.

“What are you doing here?” he asks quietly, pulling off his headset.

Watching him closely, I take a deep breath and raise my chin. “It’s time.”

If I misinterpreted what happened that night, this could backfire, and I hardly need him to contact the others. I’m taking a huge risk, and I just hope I’m not wrong.

“Time?” He slumps against the couch.

“Yes. You didn’t really think you would get away with it, did you?” I ask, arching a brow.

Rubbing his head, he covers his face, his voice muffled. “I’ve never regretted anything more.”

“Me either,” I say, smiling when he flinches.

“What do you want?”

“I want justice. I want to forget. I want to wake up without the urge to scrub the dirt off my fucking skin.”

Nodding, he glances up at me with a quivering mouth. “Why didn’t you report it?”

“Because I just wanted to forget. But I can’t. It’s hanging over my head and ruining everything.”

“What can I do?”

“Tell the world. Tell them you’re a fucking weak-ass piece of shit who didn’t have the balls to say no when his dick friends raped a girl.”

Stunned, he stares at me before whispering, “What?”

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