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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

Emily cried too, several times a day for a few weeks. “Life’s not fair, Mommy. Poor Buttercup. It wasn’t her fault.”

Sawyer had nightmares. He’d wake up and stand in our doorway like a zombie, half asleep. Sometimes he’d sleepwalk back to bed, sometimes he’d stand there until he woke up, or until I woke up to pee and found him there. I’d say, “Sawyer, get in. Between us.”

His face shiny with sweat, his hair sticking in all directions, he’d lie on his back and stare at the ceiling in between Trevor and me. Once he’d said, “I dreamed I was in prison.”

I turned to him, petting his hair as tears rolled down my cheeks. “No. You are the very best boy, Sawyer. You are a hero. You are my hero, Dad’s hero, Emily’s hero, your mom’s hero. We love you,” I said, until he fell back asleep.

*  *  *

Three weeks later we were headed to Marjory’s for donuts. Sawyer was driving. Donuts had become our after-school ritual. Weekend ritual too. When you are working through a tough time, donuts are as good an answer as any.

Trevor was with his mom. She didn’t have long. We’d be back in Chicago before Christmas.

At the corner where Sawyer turned into the parking lot, two young boys sat in lawn chairs on the side of the road beside a sign and a cardboard box. After Sawyer parked, I said, “Let’s go see what they’ve got.”

Kittens. Curled up into each other for comfort, itty-bitty cries and meows. Three left. “Which one should we get?” I said to Sawyer and Emily.

78

78

Trevor told me everything, and I did the same. It felt good to talk. Talking about shame took away some of its gravity.

“Your mother would want you to forgive yourself and so would Becky,” Trevor said. “You were so little. Think about it. There’s nothing Emily could do as a six-year-old that you wouldn’t forgive. You were only six. Forgive yourself like you’d forgive Emily. Like you forgave me.”

It was easy to forgive Trevor. Who we are as adults often has no resemblance of who we were at sixteen.

Asher Moss was awaiting trial for the murder of Dawn Young and three other girls. Dawn had been his first. Jewelry found in his house and Desiree’s apartment linked him to at least four murders across Wisconsin, Michigan, and Minnesota. Even with me stirring up the past, he never worried enough to dispose of the jewelry he’d collected from his victims. The people who should worry most about their tendencies and behaviors usually have the most self-confidence.