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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

The solid yellow line in the road was electric yellow, and the night sky glowed, mystic colors swimming. I blinked twice, hard. I’d only had two shots. Maybe it was a combination of whiskey and all that driving today. I gripped the wheel harder. Released my grip and tensed again. The sound of my tires clunking over the road was loud and pleasing, like listening to a heartbeat through a stethoscope.

“You feeling it?” she said.

“What?”

“Shrooms.”

“No, you didn’t,” but my voice sounded like a record slowed way down, the pitch so low it was underground, two feet under with the dirt and worms.

I should have been mad at her, but I wasn’t. I felt good. Everything smooth. The shame of watching my little kid self backstab my mom persisted, but it was light, only a balloon I was holding onto.

“You’ll have a hot night with your hubby now,” she said. I glanced over at her. Her lips were glossy and wet, and her blue eyes sparkled with fairy dust.

“He’s not home,” I said and laughed.

70

70

TREVOR

Sawyer and Trish, they’d had a good visit.

Sawyer had been relaxed, telling Trish about driver’s education, about going hunting, about hearing a cougar growl yesterday morning, and Trish had listened. Her face was clean, her eyes were bright and alert. No drugs, no phone to distract her attention. Her hair had the stripped-down look of the poor. Without beauty products, fresh color, curling irons, it was merely hair, flat and dull.

My feelings for Trish were complicated. When I boiled it down, she had given me Sawyer, so I loved her for that. My love for her no longer buzzed, but it rested deep in the marrow of my bones.

But ever since Sawyer had visited his mom, he’d been quiet. We’d grabbed a pepperoni pizza from Lou Malnati’s and headed to the condo.

It felt good to be back. The condo smelled good, like a new place somehow, like vacation, all clean linens and unbreathed air. We ate quietly, enjoying our home, enjoying the lack of Emily’s chatter or Heather’s reminders.

“It’s weird how some little stupid thing can land you in prison,” Sawyer said, staring at his pizza. “Steal a purse, months in prison. How’s she gonna get a job when she gets out? I don’t want to go to prison.”

“Why would you go to prison?”

“I’m gonna make some mistake.”

“You can make mistakes. Just not illegal ones.”

Sawyer was quiet for a while, taking huge bites, chewing fast, swallowing painfully. “We let that baby cougar out. We cut two of the links, grabbed it. It got loose.”