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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, gosh. Let’s see. 1991,” she said, letting out a hefty sigh. I was asking her to do math, and she was reluctant. “We got twenty-six officers. The police sergeant, he’s the oldest at forty-eight. Let’s see. He would have been what, seventeen or eighteen—just shy of working for the department. No, we got no one on the force that old.”

“What about retired officers?”

“Let me think. Mikey Hooke retired a couple months ago, but he moved to Arizona, I’m not sure where. You got Ben Greer. He retired a year ago. He lives in the Dorcy Trailer Park in Yellow Valley. That’s public information, by the way, I’m not giving out private, ’course.”

“Oh, of course. Thank you.”

“Ross Klepmeyer retired around then too. He had a massive stroke. He’s in a nursing home out of town, not sure of the name. Before him, you got Asher Moss. He’s in town, but I don’t know his address.”

Asher Moss. Desiree’s dad.

19

19

The Dorcy Trailer Park was only fifteen minutes away. Going in blind was worth a shot.

This man was going to clear everything up and tell me how it had all been a misunderstanding. My mom hadn’t been involved in Dawn Young’s murder. It had been a case of town gossip spreading like a stomach bug. I would go back to Moldy Mildred with this nonsense behind me and take a nap.

I pulled into the trailer park and drove down a gravel road. I asked the first woman I came across.

“Yep, I know him,” she said. Using a drinking glass, she was watering a pot of cherry tomatoes outside her trailer. “Greer’s in the way back. Easy to find. Last trailer. It’s white and it backs to the forest. Styrofoam cooler sitting in a tire tube out front.”

Ben Greer’s trailer wasn’t white, but it used to be. Urine-yellow rust stains speckled his home. He sat on a lawn chair in front of a rusty grill, smoke drifting away from him and nestling in the green leaves of the sugar maple to his left.

It was the state tree of Wisconsin—the sugar maple.

We had a sugar maple in the backyard of my early childhood home. It stood in the center of the yard like the star performer on a stage. In the autumn, its radiant colors—marigold, peach, and strawberry—glowed at dawn and dusk. When the leaves trembled in the breeze, they resembled flickering flames. I shook off the image. I still tried so hard to forget that tree and what I found there.

He eyed me hard as I stopped my car and got out. The air was oily with grilled fish.

“Are you Ben Greer?”