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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

“Why wasn’t she charged?”

He picked up a plate from the dirt. It held an open bun. He tossed the split bun, face open, onto the grill.

“Our town prosecutor decided not to. Your mom had a bunch of kids, she said she’d been medicated, she took back her confession, and the evidence didn’t add up.”

“What evidence did they have?”

“Dawn Young had sex before she was murdered. Could have been rough sex or could have been sexual assault.”

His words didn’t sit right, but I didn’t want to interrupt.

“We collected evidence from the body, but this was the early ’90s,” he said with disdain. Based on his look, his early morning drinking, his rusting trailer, I had pegged him for old-school nostalgic. Maybe I was wrong. “It took a few weeks to do a DNA test. The evidence got contaminated or lost in forensics. That wasn’t unusual.”

He took his bun off the grill, speared the fish, and placed it in the bun. From the ground beside his chair, he picked up a glass container of something that looked like sauerkraut—wilted strands of iceberg soaked in milky dip—and dumped some on top of his sandwich. He set the jar in the dirt and waited with the plate on his lap. He wanted to eat. He didn’t want to share his food or any more of his time.

“So, they didn’t charge her, and then the investigation just stopped? Is that typical?”

He bit his lip, hesitating. “It fizzled, yeah. Dawn Young didn’t have an advocate. No one demanding justice. Her only family was her mom, and her mom didn’t have roots here. The mom was strange. Quiet. In that way, Dawn was a good target.”

“Is her mom still in town?”

He shook his head. “Killed herself.”

I inhaled deeply, pulling in smoke. “Do you think my mom did it?”

He glanced at his sandwich, and shifted in his seat. He sighed, annoyed, but trying to be patient. “The older I get, the less sure I am about my past opinions. But, at the time, I leaned toward no. Mainly because of the sex, but also because she came across as,” he paused, searching for the right word, and gazed at his Styrofoam cooler, maybe considering another beer. “Tired. She seemed tired. This murder was meticulous. The killer had cut off Dawn Young’s fingers.”

20

20

TREVOR

Wren stood in front of the main entrance to J&B Graphic Design, vaping and scanning her phone. She was young, easygoing, and a master of small talk. Heya, Trev. What is the one song you’re still listening to? Which car on the highway pisses you off the most? Favorite late-night snack: sweet or salty?

I didn’t hate chatting, but my schedule was packed lately, I didn’t have fifteen minutes of wiggle room.