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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

She grabbed her laptop and brought it to the couch. “Listen, my parents, they—my dad—he stole drugs from the hospital where they’re benefactors. He shouldn’t be a doctor. I mean, I should have written a letter to APA or the FBI—”

“You obviously feel awful about what happened,” I said. “I get it. Can you just show me?”

She set her laptop on the coffee table, and I sat on the couch in front of it. She said, “I’m going to change, and, well, you probably want to watch this alone.”

“This is widespread, folks. It is systemic and organized. The brainwashing, the programming, the murders, it’s no joke.”

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

THE RADISSON PLAZA HOTEL, CINCINNATI, OHIO

68

68

The video was playing, the seconds scrolled by on the bottom right, but the camera was recording an empty room. A white faded line moved vertically into frame, then disappeared. She’d digitized the recording, but the deterioration of the original film had been preserved.

In the room, a white cloth bag, cinched closed, sat upon a floral rug. In the background, a low corner table, old fashioned with wire latticework.

My armpits were sweaty, and I was chilled from the inside out.

How bad could this be?

A slender black cat with brownish-yellow eyes, a witch’s cat, walked out from Claire’s kitchen, meowed, and jumped onto the opposite end of the couch. Curled up on the top ledge.

A male voice, off-camera, said, “Why don’t you sit over there by that bag. Right there on the floor.”

A little girl in blue jeans and a red and white gingham shirt came into view, sat on the floor, crisscross.

The girl wore her brown hair in a bob. I couldn’t make out the expression on her face. The video’s quality was fuzzy, colors were faded, and the picture frame speed was crummy. The white line moved into frame and out again.

I’d been expecting a video of my mom. Had Claire put in the wrong video? A video of herself as a kid?

The male voice, off-camera, said, “Go ahead and open the bag.”

The girl hesitated.

“Nothing to be afraid of. Open the bag.” He was impatient and pushy.

Was I getting a look at Claire’s bizarre childhood?

Be patient. My mom’s clip was probably coming up next, taped over this home video.

On camera, the girl opened the bag. A few wooden blocks tumbled out onto the thin carpet. The video went fuzzy again. White vertical lines flashing, then clearing.

The girl placed one block on the carpet and placed another on top of that. She was going for a single tall tower. Terrible architect, no foresight.

“Yesterday you started to tell me about a knife you had at home in the kitchen,” he said. “You said it was a long knife.”