The Devil Made Me Do It Read Online Free Page B

she wasn’t being fair, but somehow, it didn’t matter. Her heart was bruised enough. The dorm room was now her alternate universe. Her energy was sapped, and she ignored the situation as alternate universes will allow you to do.
    She exhaled; drained. “Goodness, maybe he’ll just fade away.” She couldn’t feel; she was numb.
    She wasn’t a heathen; she tried to pray, but she became distracted by a thought or a sound. Sometimes when she prayed, her mind wouldn’t stop racing so that she could hear Him. Her mother left prayers on her answering machine, but Elizabeth Wiley had no idea what was going on. If she knew, she’d pull Esther out of school and bring her home. Esther looked toward Deborah’s closed bedroom door. If that happened, what would happen to her?
    Esther was soul searching. She blamed herself for Sheri’s suicide. A real friend would have known something was wrong. What signs did she miss while she was hugged up with Briggs? When was the last time she had spent quality time with either of her best friends?
    And, she was—get a shovel, dig the body up, and kill her again—angry at Sheri. What gave her the right to decide life was too hard? It was hard for everybody. Nobody went through life singing “Kumbaya.”
    Angry tears dripped down her cheeks. “Lord, I wish Sheri had used a comma instead of a period to fix her life.”
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    The emotional day had crept into night. It was warm for October, and a breeze filtered through the cracked window. Outside Esther’s dorm room, the campus was peaceful. Behind closed doors, tempers clashed.
    Deborah yanked her suitcase off the floor and stormed past Esther. “You can’t talk me out of it, stop trying. I can’t stay here; I can’t do this anymore.”
    Esther caught Deborah’s sleeve as she passed. She gasped when Deborah pushed her back and jerked away. “Okay, you’re upset. Girl, help me understand. How can you just move away?” In turmoil, Esther beat her chest with her fist. “I know Sheri’s gone, but I’m here. . . . Please don’t do this.”
    Tears rained down Esther’s red, splotchy face. Deborah stood stoic, her knuckles purplish, clutched around the handle of her suitcase. She faced the door, her left hand tight around the doorknob. She shook the door in agitation. “I can’t help you understand. I can’t get you to feel what I feel. But, today I’m clear. The voices are quiet, and I don’t know for how long.” Deborah’s head spun toward Esther. Her stance was rigid and determined. Her eyes drifted up and down Esther and flashed arctic heat. She then exploded and spittle flew. “I’m not going to go crazy. I’ve tossed and turned to the image of her death, voices tormenting me night and day. Her lifeless body swinging in every nightmare. It’s been three weeks, and there’s no relief. Nothing, and no one, can help. I’ve gotta get outta here.”
    The door’s slam vibrated through Esther’s heart; she was alone.
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    The next day, all of Sheri’s belongings were shipped. Esther had completed something, and she felt a sense of accomplishment. Last night, she made her own plans. She only needed to tie up a few loose ends, like the insistent knock at her door.
    Her eye pressed against the peephole. She counted the number of times Briggs knocked on the door as she watched him pace her hallway. He appeared determined . Esther threw open the door just as Briggs’s fist was raised to knock again.
    He folded his arms and gave her a granite-hard glare, “Thank you for answering the door.”
    Esther stepped back, her voice subdued. “You’re welcome, come on in.”
    Briggs’s stride was fidgety, foreign to his usual smooth gait. His voice strained, his hands pushed deep into his pants pockets, and he seemed to struggle for control.