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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

“McClane’s in The Fairchild Home.” She said it dryly, terminal. As if this one statement explained everything about him. I was guessing Fairchild was a place you put an adult who needed full-time care and safety when you decided that you, the parent, were no longer able to provide those things.

“Oh,” I said awkwardly. I struck a blank with her daughters’ names so I went for the husband. “How is Mr. Kender?”

“Gary is in Milwaukee County.” Same monotone, dead-end answer. Gal had become a real downer.

“For business?”

“Milwaukee County Prison.”

“Oh,” I said, “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“And my daughters?” she said, annoyed, assuming I was going to continue this nosey line of inquiry. “Cheryl’s in California. Farah hung herself a couple years ago.” She didn’t say it with sadness, but with piss. As if Cheryl moved as far away as she could manage to ruin Gal’s life. As if Farah killed herself to spite Gal.

Her words hit me like a sucker punch, unexpected and hard. In my mind, Becky’s neck dropped against the clothesline, her hair cascading over half her face.

Gal walked past me, opened her screen, and stepped inside.

“Just like Becky,” I said, my voice a rough whisper.

Without another word, Gal closed her door.

“Why do we study psychology for years and years, after all? We want to help people. The brain is a strange island, and some of us get stranded there all alone.”

Doctor Clifford Paulson, PhD Psychology
Transcripts from the Sixth Annual Conference on
Adult Manifestations of Childhood Trauma

THE RADISSON PLAZA HOTEL, CINCINNATI, OHIO

51

51

I pulled into the garage and walked down the long driveway to get the mail. Like a needle skipping a vinyl record, my mind kept repeating snippets of my conversation with Gal. Farah hung herself a couple years ago. Gary’s in prison.

I wanted to know why.

Rodney held a memorial for those opossums. Tried to save Phillis’s babies. He nursed them with a dropper for days before the last one of them died.

Why had my child’s mind twisted Rodney’s kindness into something horrific and repulsive?

Because he was strange and secretive. He was. Even if he hadn’t killed Gal’s opossums, he could still have killed Dawn Young.

Multiple Personality Disorder. Your mom was being treated for Multiple Personality Disorder.

I knew the symptoms. Detachment. Blurred sense of identity. Notable changes in personality. Did it fit?

A utility van stopped in the middle of the street, the side door opened roughly, and Desiree stepped out. She wore a T-shirt cut off below her breasts, jeans, and her hair down. Smokey eyes, glossy lips.

“Hea-ther! So this is where you live?” The utility van and the two males in the front should have put me on edge, but Desiree was thrilled to see me. Total serendipity.

“What are you doing here?” I said.