Page 40 of Holden

With my identity out in the open with Holden and Lindsay, I plan on making a full confession, to everyone I’ve lied to, including myself. I am Roger Moorehouse’s daughter. But I am not my father. I hope that going forward, the people I tell are more like Lindsay—and don’t react like Holden.

I exhale an emotional breath. “Thank you,” I say, and wipe a tear from my eyes with the back of my hand. “For sharing, and for not hating me. I can’t say the same for Holden, but I understand. Now, I need to go make it right with the college.”

Lindsay nods. “You’ll feel better. Do you want me to go with you?”

“That’s sweet.” My lips turn up in a small smile, the first in more than twelve hours. “But this is something I need to do alone.”

Lindsay pulls me in for an awkward hug. Our arms tangle and we both burst out laughing. It’s not as forced as I imagined, and for the first time in as long as I can remember, I think in time, everything might turn out okay. Maybe I won’t have Holden, but I’ll be free from the secrets and lies that have held me back.

“I’ll be here when you get back,” Lindsay says. “Unless you need me to come kick some ass. In which case, text me an address.”

I squeeze her tight. “No fists required—but maybe you could track down some cheap wine? I have a feeling I’m going to need to liquid medicate by the time this day is done.”

Chapter 21

Professor Dirk Pritchard is a stern man.

Serious.

Composed.

But the way my grad school mentor stares at me right now, makes me think I’m not the only one that has a couple of different personalities.

I expected him to scold me when I came clean, remind me that honesty is a tenant of our chosen profession, and not only part of the college code of ethics, but in life itself. I anticipated disappointment.

But that is not at all how Professor Pritchard stares at me now. His expression is a conflicting slate of intrigue and sympathy. I squirm in my chair, holding my breath while I wait for his comment, trying not to be too obviously nervous as I fidget with the hem on my skirt.

“Chelsea, it takes incredible courage to come forward in these kinds of situations,” he says, gently.

I flinch. Lindsay basically said the same thing, but I’m not feeling very courageous. Had I been, I would have told Holden the truth sooner, or not lied at all. It’s far too late for regrets.

“And I can appreciate that you want to do the right thing,” Professor Pritchard goes on. He shuffles some paperwork on his desk, arranging files into neat piles, and then clasps his hands together on the just-cleared surface. “You’ve been through a traumatic ordeal and one can’t predict how they will respond to such a situation. For example, you and your mother ran…”

My mouth opens, and then closes without comment. Professor Pritchard isn’t judging me, only relaying the facts. An important distinction.

“It was very brave to want to interview the victims of your father’s crimes.”

And stupid. He forgets to mention that part.

“But perhaps, you should look at this experience as a gift, rather than another incident to drag you down.”

“Gift?” I’m aware that my tone has turned incredulous, but either Professor Pritchard isn’t listening, or he’s not quite the mentor I thought him to be. Is anyone who they say they are anymore? “My father ruined people’s lives. And instead of respecting the victims of that crime, I betrayed them. I lied to someone I care about.”

Someone I love.

“How can that be a gift?”

Professor Pritchard gives me a sad smile. “I’m not suggesting you dismiss the pain you’ve caused others, but rather, to use it—and the pain you feel yourself—as a tool to guide your future, and perhaps, a way to help others deal with their pain as well.”

My eyes skim over the awards and commendations on Professor Pritchard’s wall. Despite my ulterior motives in speaking with Holden, I still had dreams of using my schooling for good. He’s right in that I can use this experience to aid victims of tragedy, but in this moment, I’m not even sure I can continue with school. I haven’t even turned in my final assignment.

“Turn it into something else,” Professor Pritchard says, when I say as much. “Have you considered sharing your story in a more…” He runs his tongue across his top teeth. “…expansive way?”

I lick my lips. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

He reaches behind his desk to a bookshelf stocked with texts and true crime fiction. I recognize many titles, though not the book he hands me. “Have you heard of Hannah Rowe?”

I shake my head.