BooksBarbecue
Back Confess to Me
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

“I heard about you,” he said slowly, nodding, cogs slipping into place. “I’m friends with a buddy of yours from high school,” he said, serendipitously, like I’d offered to pay his tab. “That was some crazy shit you did. And then you married one of them.” He slapped his hand on the bar, laughing.

My trunk slammed. Brandon came around to my window and knocked on the glass once with his knuckles. I rolled my window down, and rain splattered the leather interior, misted my face and arm. “We’re all set, man,” he said. “When we get there, I’ll hang back and be your lookout. Keep your phone handy in case there’s trouble.”

My socks were wet and cold inside my shoes. My shirt clung to my chest. I turned my face away from him, toward my steering wheel, and nodded.

“Don’t be such a pussy, OK?” he said. “We make a good team. The last guy I worked with was nowhere near as professional as you.”

I laughed at the compliment—a single Ha! Getting called a “professional” by a guy like Brandon Paulson.

60

60

HEATHER

As if my sticky nausea and acidic nostrils were pixie dust, we made it home.

I made it to the bathroom on Jell-O legs, trembly and loose, and collapsed on the floor. I stared, glazy-eyed, at the inch of water-damaged and rotting wood around the toilet’s base. I cleaned when we got here, but I’m not sure I ever got to scrubbing the germs from the last family off this wood floor.

That thought did it, and I puked again. Not much came up besides strings of bubbly spit, a few sesame seeds from the tuna roll, and a touch of bile. I’d puked several times at the stoplight and hardly had anything left. I flushed the toilet and stood, splashing water up my nose and into my mouth.

I lowered myself back down to the floor and laid my head upon a pillow. Emily must have grabbed it from my bed. Sweet Emily. Had I asked her for a pillow?

My small delivery person was nowhere in sight. Barbie’s fluttering, enthusiastic voice drifted in from the TV room. Sounded a little like Barbie, a little like porn.

Had I really seen Trevor and Brandon talking or was that a sick fever dream glazed with a sheet of rain?

It was them.

I’d wanted to turn around and pull up beside them in the parking lot. I hadn’t had the energy, and I just needed to get home. Besides, what would you have said to them?

61

61

I opened my eyes to deep, menstrual red.

I blinked a few times and rolled from my stomach onto my side. Like wiper fluid rubbing around a bit of oil on the windshield, my view was smeary, but readable.

Oh. The Red Room. The Murder Room.

If I had had the energy, I would have laughed.