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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

“Do mommas love them even if the children are bad? Even if they lie or steal?”

“Mommas love them anyway,” I said, my eyes stinging. “Go to sleep.”

She closed her eyes and, moments later, she was snoring the soft snore of children. Their noses are so small, they can’t help but breathe noisily.

I walked into our room, my eyes quietly leaking because no, mommas didn’t always love their children. I was ready to tell Trevor everything.

That a man I’d bludgeoned knew where we lived, that someone had sent me texts, luring me back to Hunther, that someone else left a dead opossum on the front porch as a warning, that I was scared for our family, that I was obsessed with a townie girl, that decades ago my mom had confessed to killing a girl, and that Rodney probably did it. And I was ready to tell him what happened to Becky too.

Trevor was on his back, our billowy comforter bunched under his chin, covering his body, but stopping short above his ankles. His bare feet stuck straight up. His socks only covered his toes and draped flaccid onto the bed. He struck me as wholesome and cartoonish. Everything about Trevor was sweet, funny, and for my amusement. Even his snore seemed comical, a loud, phony snore that would make the kids laugh.

I didn’t want to wake him, not now, but I needed to tell him.

Things were happening. After all these years of being on my own and thinking I’d left it all behind, I heard my past rev its engine once, twice, the deep tone resonating through cool, dry air. Across a wide field of tall grain, some hulky engine kick-started. Old pistons were sparking, and gears were beginning to turn, shaking off flecks of rust, finding their grooves. My old life, hidden by thick, dusty crops, was coming for me.

47

47

I had been six years old. I woke abruptly in the hallway closet. Something had woken me. Thinking it was morning, I pushed open the bifold doors and walked downstairs to watch early morning cartoons, the shag-carpet feeling of the stairs comfy and pushing between my toes.

A quiet struggling noise. I stopped on the stairs, listening. Someone sniffing, crying into their pillow. Sounded like it was coming from the boys’ rooms. That couldn’t be right. I’d never heard Rodney or Shane cry before.

Maybe the smothered crying was coming from Mom’s room, in which case, I should get downstairs quickly. Mom was unpredictable. Sometimes a warm glowing ball of love coming down like Glinda the Good Witch; sometimes, the Wicked Witch, all bitterness and rage.

By the time I made it to the bottom stair, the small windows alongside the door caught my attention. Sunlight coming through was tinted a magical pink. The windows were streaked with paint. Holly must have been finger-painting. Oh, she’s gonna get in trouble for that.