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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
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  60. 55
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  64. 59
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  66. 61
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  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

No strong emotions had hit me, so I’d exhaled.

Stabbed? It sounded horrific. I sympathized with her on a human level, but her death hadn’t hit me emotionally. I hadn’t shed a tear or felt a pang of loss. Still hadn’t.

You never feel much.

I’d told Trevor my mom had died, but that I didn’t want to talk about it. Trevor didn’t know the details of my childhood. He knew it was not a happy one, and he knew not to probe.

Fifteen days ago, I received a text message from an unknown number.

-Not robbery.

A day later, another text.

-Murder.

The next day.

-She was murdered.

Another text.

-Hunther.

I texted back. Who are you? Why do you care? Who the fuck are you? I never got a response.

The number changed every few days, but the texts kept coming. Whoever was texting me was using burner phones.

Again,

-Hunther.

And again,

-Hunther.

I dreaded these texts yet also looked forward to them. Like blindly reaching into a dark basement crawlspace and rooting out old boxes, I wanted to discover what was in the boxes but I was scared to reach into the dark—would my hand meet a sticky spider’s web or something that scurried?

My mom died four months ago, why were these texts coming now?

I received a text like this almost every day, including today.

5

5

TREVOR

Heather and I laid in bed, studying a satellite image of our neighbor’s backyard on her phone.

“Do you see those? Cages,” she said, both appalled and amused, tilting her phone toward me.

“Yeah, I see.” From a bird’s eye view, relative to the outline of this guy’s roof and the old pine trees lining the back of his yard, it was clear the cages were massive. They were rectangular, each the size of a garage, and they connected to form an “L.” Topping the structure was a lattice of what looked to be sturdy netting.

I squinted, searching the image on her phone for a dark, lurking shape. There were no obvious animal shapes, but overgrown bushes, young trees, and a jungle gym provided plenty of places to hide.

“Maybe they have koalas,” I said, trying to ease her worry and draw a smile. “Did you know koala populations have raging chlamydia outbreaks? They are filthy sex-hounds.”

She elbowed me jokingly, but didn’t bite. “Cougars. She said cougars. What are the odds this guy would be six houses down from us?”

“Yeah, but with the yards as big as they are, that’s a mile,” I said.

“What’s one mile to a mountain lion?”

I breathed deep. Our bedroom smelled like my dead grandparents’ house, the wooden scaffolding steeped in nicotine and mildew. “True,” I said. “You and the kids should go back to Chicago. For safety.” It would make things easier.