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Back Confess to Me Save as PDF
Chapters (87)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by Sharon Doering
  3. Title Page
  4. Dedication
  5. Prologue
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. 50
  56. 51
  57. 52
  58. 53
  59. 54
  60. 55
  61. 56
  62. 57
  63. 58
  64. 59
  65. 60
  66. 61
  67. 62
  68. 63
  69. 64
  70. 65
  71. 66
  72. 67
  73. 68
  74. 69
  75. 70
  76. 71
  77. 72
  78. 73
  79. 74
  80. 75
  81. 76
  82. 77
  83. 78
  84. 79
  85. Author’s Note
  86. Acknowledgements
  87. About the Author

Before I shut my car door, it sunk in. It was a dead opossum.

It didn’t make sense. Why would someone send me those texts, lure me here, then send me a nasty warning?

And that’s what it was, a warning.

I donned gardening gloves—good thing Trevor was always buying more! Turned my face away as I grabbed it by the foot and scooted the corpse—it was heavy—into a black garbage bag, then threw the gloves away too. Tossed all of it in the trash and dumped soapy water on our front porch.

By the time I was done with my hot shower, everyone in the house was awake. I didn’t mention the opossum.

*  *  *

After I walked Emily through the front doors of Owen Elementary, I grabbed a coffee at the McDonald’s drive thru and parked in the lot. Holly’s Facebook page said she lived in Dixon, Illinois, an eight-hour drive from Hunther, so I’d assumed she still lived there. On my phone I searched, “Holly Hornne and Hunther.” God, it was a fucking alliteration. Holly and I, both. Heather Hornne from Hunther hates her history. What a joke.

She had purchased a house in Hunther three months ago. Shortly after Mom died. 5218 Cross Street. Once you bought a house in the US, your privacy went out the window. Seeing Holly’s name in print gave me a wobbly feeling. The surname I had been so eager to bury, she’d kept when she married. Her husband, Bruce Chicone, was on the mortgage too.

Twenty minutes later, I was parked on the street in front of her house, my hands slick and my stomach sweaty.

This house looked similar to the scrappy ranch she’d had in Dixon, Illinois, which I’d known from her Facebook photos. She’d moved from one outworn town to another outworn town right into the same shitty yellow ranch. Dandelions, the nasty ones with needles, towered over the bushes bordering her door.

A red dog lead had been left on the front porch, along with a full and knotted bag of dog poop. Nothing more welcoming than a bag of crap on your front porch.

Drive away.

I couldn’t. There’s no way I’d be able to forget Judy telling me they “got the devil out” of my mom.

OK, maybe I could do this, but I needed to stop home first. Even with the air conditioning on, my forehead was prickly and my guts felt oily. I shifted gears and gazed in my rearview. I waited for the approaching car to pass, but it slowed and turned into Holly’s driveway.

The Corolla was the color of a gloomy day and its bumper was tied on.