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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

“Oh God, Desiree. We have to call the police. Now.”

“I gotta pee so bad. And I still can’t believe you whacked him,” she said and laughed, but it was hollow. “He’s gonna be pissed.” Her liquid eyes flashed awe and a glimmer of fear.

Why didn’t she tell me this as his body was snapping twigs and tumbling down the embankment?

But I guess I knew why. Abusive relationship. He’d run us off the road and pinned her against the car—neither were normal behaviors. Unhealthy relationships came in thirty-two flavors, and, no matter the flavor, the recipe called for equal parts need and revulsion. Equal parts adoration and fear. Love and hate.

Half of her might have wanted him dead. Maybe he’d threatened to tell his brother that she was the one who’d come on to him first.

And who knew what the other half of her wanted? Maybe he was the wild brother, the dangerous brother, the hotter brother, the one who she’d secretly wanted for years, only to settle for his kinder, gentler sibling.

And what kind of disloyal asshole stabbed his own brother in the back?

“Now you really regret picking me up,” she said, tapping the roof of my car. Behind her, the building was dark. Three stories. Brown siding. A dog barked from somewhere inside.

Yes, indeed.

“Oh, and I didn’t kill your mom,” she said softly. “In case that’s what you’re thinking.”

“What? What? Of course you didn’t. God.”

“I’m not violent. I’ve never killed anyone,” she said. She turned away and walked to the door of her apartment building. Seconds later, she disappeared inside.

Maybe that thought should have crossed my mind. My mom was murdered during a home invasion. Desiree broke into someone’s house today. I missed things sometimes.

An image of my mother came to mind. My mother leaning over, elbows on the kitchen counter, her leopard print bathrobe revealing sloppy, blotchy-skinned cleavage. Long fingers, one ringed with a purple crystal, and raggedy unpainted nails wrapping around the handle of her coffee mug, the inner rim stained brown. The mug was usually filled with her signature drink—vodka and peach crystal light. The brownish-peach powder dusted the countertops and hung in the air. I’d bite a hangnail off my finger and taste sweet peach. My mom’s smile was forced, and her eyes were empty. The image filled me with a kind of terror and hollowness.

My mother. My family.

I’d kept the hose kinked on my family memories for a long time. The pressure coming through was suddenly too much, and I let the hose slip away. It uncoiled wildly, thrashing, and my memories burst in a fast spray.

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