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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

Walking toward the TV room, I felt a gust of cool morning air and shivered. The back door was wide open, which was strange. I had always been the first one awake.

The birds were noisy early in the morning. I couldn’t name them, but I was familiar with their songs and with the woodpeckers’ drilling. Pink, orange, and yellow leaves were everywhere in the grass, drawing me outdoors to collect them. Harsh morning rays of sun lit the yard, highlighting dew clinging to leaves and grass. I hated the feeling on my bare feet, the cold, wet, poking grass. The fallen leaves clinging to my skin. I reached down and picked one up. Yellow with red veins and an orange glow at the edges like a halo.

A branch creaked once, twice. The noise drew my attention across the yard.

Hanging from our gorgeous fiery maple, the source of all these stunning leaves, was Becky’s body.

48

48

TREVOR

I drove in the dark along a two-lane road, my window down. I was sleepy, and the crisp predawn air was keeping me awake. I had an early meeting. My boss knew I was coming from Wisconsin—scheduling an early meeting was a dick move.

Ahead in the road, two glowing eyes. I slammed my brakes. Adrenaline burst through me as my tires squealed and tried to grip the road.

Deer.

My car stopped. Acrid smells of burnt rubber and hot brake pads infused air. I switched on my brights.

Not a deer.

A cow stood in the middle of the road, its eyes staring dumbly at me.

My pulse beat in my forehead, the beginning of an early morning headache. Stupid cow. Irritation prickled up my neck. I had a sudden urge, a rage, to clip its back legs.

I could do it too. There were no cars on the road now in either direction as far as the eye could see. My foot remained on the brake, but itched to shove the gas pedal.

As a teen, if I saw anything in the road—a duck, a turtle, a deer—I stepped on the gas and tried to smash it. That need to tear an animal apart, tear myself apart, had pulsed inside me. It had been primal. Like being in the throes of sex, nearing orgasm when the mind went offline. No thinking. Only need. A need for release.

Bloodlust.

That urge, bloodlust, had gripped me too many times during my teenage years. Now it dragged up a memory: the feeling of my knees in wet grass, a half-filled bucket before me, the weight of my grandfather’s hunting knife sheathed in my belt, and the dark biting night around me. The bucket stinking of animal and iron and skin. Its warm liquid steaming in the cold.

I had plunged my hands into the bucket and loved the feeling. Blood.