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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

Father Greg sighed, dropping his hand from his eyes. He didn’t want to.

“Please,” I said.

He nodded. He wrote with his thumb tucked under the pencil, and he shielded his paper with his other hand. It was such a childish gesture. He folded the paper twice, dropped his head against one of his palms, and pushed the note across the table. “Please don’t read it here. And rip it up after you read it.”

“OK,” I said. My teeth might have chattered. “I really appreciate this.”

Sporty Priest left the kitchen and walked down the hall. Time for him to disappear. He didn’t want to get scolded when I left.

“One last question,” I said, the note tight in my sweaty hand. “Did you know Dawn Young?”

The corners of his mouth drooped, and he looked down at his coffee. “I still have the picture she drew me. Deer, birds, trees—a beautiful scene, just beautiful.” He shook his head. “Perhaps she shouldn’t have been so friendly with people.” He sighed and lifted hooded eyes to me. “All this talking has me exhausted. Can you let yourself out?”

In my car I unfolded the paper, anticipation bloating in my chest. He had the handwriting of a child or a serial killer, all caps and messy. He’d even spelled out the bad words. Father Greg, you dog.

I read it, imagining my mom screaming the words.

I hate you. I hate you. I’m going to claw your eyes out, you fucking bastard. I will take my knife and cut you open. Does that make your cock hard? I’ll kill you, all of you.

45

45

My skin humming from reading Father Greg’s words, I drove fast. Did my mom really say those things?

I was driving to Cliff’s house when my phone buzzed with a text. Desiree.

-Meet me at Shawnee’s Roadhouse, southwest side of town.

-When?

-I’m there now.

When I got there, Desiree was drunk. Her spaghetti strap hanging off her shoulder, she slapped her hand down on the bar, and said in good humor, “Shut the fuck up, Gerry. That didn’t happen.”

The barman smiled at her, wiping the inside of a glass. It was standard dining dark, so you couldn’t see the smudge on your glass or a cockroach scurrying along the ground. It smelled like onion rings and dirty dishrags.

I eased onto the stool beside her. “You OK?”

She turned to me and smiled, her eyes alert. Not so drunk after all. “Hea-ther,” she sang. “I’m more than OK. How’s M and M?”

A shiver ran up my back when she spoke of Emily in that familiar way. Like she could swoop in and take my daughter away, and Emily wouldn’t know to hesitate.

“We’re doing fine,” I said.

“How’s your investigation?”