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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

And I was expecting, hoping, convincing myself that Trevor would still turn out to be the good guy. Like maybe Brandon Paulson was threatening Trevor with a lawsuit because I’d bashed his head, and Trevor was paying hush money to save his dear wife from the horror of it all.

“Trevor?”

“What is it?”

I closed my eyes. That made it easier. “Why’d you meet Brandon Paulson in a parking lot?”

A pause so pregnant, the room could burst. Please. Just don’t lie.

“What are you talking about?”

“I saw you. Paul Bunyan’s bar. How do you know Brandon Paulson?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, defensive, a hint of anger. “You’re not feeling well. I’m going to get you some water.” His footsteps moved away.

He should have said, Heather, who is Brandon Paulson?

It’s OK. Let him think about it. Leave him to twist and come up with an excuse. And then, I thought, I’d accept his excuse, whatever it was, because Trevor was a good guy. I wouldn’t divorce you even if you conspired with Brandon Paulson, the man I skull-fucked with a Maglite, the man who stood on my front lawn days ago and threatened me.

If I had energy, I would have laughed.

Conspired with Brandon Paulson.

Conspired to what?

Sawyer and Trevor whispered in the kitchen, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Fatigue threaded through my muscles. My throat was dry. Good thing Trevor’s bringing water.

Whispering was too much work for them, and their voices broke to quiet speaking. “Is she gonna be better by tomorrow so we can go?” Sawyer said.

Oh, that’s right. His mom. Little Miss Sticky Fingers. Sawyer had a date with his mom in Cook County’s Women’s Correctional.

Be nice. He’s just a kid, aching for life to make sense. It had to feel demeaning, like that stupid purse was worth more than staying straight for her only kid. My heart ached for him.

“We’ll see, Sawyer,” said Trevor, sounding distracted.

“What if she’s not better?”

“Then we’ll stay here. We can’t leave her when she’s this sick.” My heart cheered for Trevor and shook its pom poms. I wanted him to be my perfect Trevor.

“She ruins everything,” said Sawyer.

As weak and dazed as I was—I desperately needed a glass of water, but I think Trevor had forgotten—a small voice inside said, Yes, that might be true.

62

62

Twilight’s soft blue glow seeped into the room where the curtains failed to meet. Predawn. My mouth tasted sour, and my skin was greasy. My stomach muscles pulled and ached.

Trevor snored obnoxiously beside me. When had I crawled into our bed? I had a pang of love for him, but it was shellacked in strangeness and distrust.

Liar.