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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 killer cut off her fingers.

When I pictured it, my mind imagined a stage prop hand with rubbery fingers painted red at their stumps. My brain had no real reference for what severed fingers might look like.

I weighed asking Tracy about Dawn. What did I have to lose? Also, he’d almost shot me, which was perversely intimate. I felt justified asking him anything.

“Hey, do you know anything about Dawn Young? She was murdered decades ago. They never found who did it.”

He kept dragging the carcass, speaking in between huffs and grunts. “I moved here from Milwaukee. Five years ago. Don’t know everything about this place. Heard about it though. Teenage girl.”

He’d gotten the deer off the gravel, pulled it deeper into the patch of golden weed, bending and crushing the tall wildflowers and painting them in blood. “Someone slit her down the middle and dropped her in the river. They said this lady, I can’t remember her name, they said she did, that it was devil worship. That was a thing back then, you know. The woman had teenage sons. I always thought one of her sons killed Dawn Young, and the mother took the blame. You think that’s sexist of me, believing a woman couldn’t do something so heinous?”

“I don’t know,” I said, not giving his question any thought, and walked away.

Shane would have been thirteen. Rodney, sixteen.

My head felt muggy with the stink of iron, of blood.

Desiree Moss telling me my mom murdered a girl seemed unreal; Ben Greer’s mention of severed fingers felt foreign; but strangely, Tracy Summers mentioning devil worship and my brother hit home.

22

22

I pictured Rodney at sixteen, placing a dream catcher by the dead opossums’ heads, and marbles, painted rocks, playing cards, and a rabbit’s foot by their tails. I hated the feel of a rabbit’s foot under my thumb. The fur was fake, the hardness underneath it was fake, but it felt real.

He’d stood beside me. My six-year-old head came up to his elbow. There wasn’t much of a foul smell from the opossums. There were only the smells of hot grass and spicy body odor coming off Rodney.

Why had I been there with him? Had I been moping around in the backyard, dragging sticks and lifting rocks, and stumbled upon his ceremony? Had he called me over to bear witness? What or who had killed the opossums? I never asked these questions. I was used to going along with whatever the big kids were doing. I was usually happy to be passively included, a miniature ghost by their sides. Opening my mouth and asking questions would only remind them I was there, and they might decide they didn’t want me.