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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

A woman stepped out, balancing two brown paper bags in one arm. She slammed her car door shut and squinted at my car, her hand going up as a visor against the sun. The skin under her arms was loose. Her brown hair had an inch of gray roots. She wore baggy jean shorts. Sneakers with crew socks. Large breasts tented out her baggy shirt.

She’d always hated that about boobs and said, “There’s only two looks with big boobs—fat or sleazy. Wear fitted shirts, you picked sleazy. Wear loose shirts, now you’re fat.” She’d been the only girl in our family to get boobs, and she’d hated them. In high school, she played volleyball and basketball, and her boobs got in the way.

Holly.

She’s only forty-two. Why does she look so old? She looked nothing like she used to. Then again, the last time I saw her, she was twenty-two

I wasn’t expecting the emotional punch of seeing her. I thought I’d shaken free of them, of all of them, a lucky fly that had torn free of the spider’s web, but I hadn’t. My wing had been ripped, and the sticky webbing stuck to my limbs. I’d lost pieces of myself, and I couldn’t shake the residue of being a Hornne.

Drive away.

My eyes stinging, I stepped out of my car and took a few steps toward her.

She saw me and dropped one of her bags, spilling it onto her driveway. “Shit. Shit,” she muttered. She set her other bag down and scrambled to pick up what had rolled out of the bag as if it were irreplaceable. White liquid spilled down her driveway, following some invisible, curvy crack and picking up dirt.

She picked up a leaking carton of Half N Half, stopped mid-squat, and held her one hand out to me, palm out, as if I had a gun. “Don’t go anywhere,” she pleaded. “I need to get something. It’s leaking.”

“I won’t,” I said, though I hadn’t decided.

“Stay right there.” She set the Half N Half down slowly, again, as if I had a gun trained on her and she was setting down her own lesser weapon. She speed-walked to her front door and fumbled getting her keys out of her pocket. When she managed the door open, a big dog nosed at her, its tail wagging hard. “Scoot, Diesel. Move your big ass outta my way.”