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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

I stepped out, stretched, and walked across the driveway to the edge of the garage. Lifted my hand as a visor against the late August sun. The house was modest, but the yard was huge. It was probably five hundred feet to each house that planked ours. None of our neighbors were out. The backyard went on for a long walk, ending abruptly at a wall of forest.

Emily ran past me, toward the backyard. “Look at all this grass!” she shouted, delighted.

Trevor came up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders. “What do you think?”

I smiled and reached back to hold his hand. “I think she’s right. That’s a lot of grass to mow.” It was a good, wifely joke. Trevor gave my shoulders a loving squeeze. He liked it when I acted wifely. I peered over my shoulder. Sawyer leaned against the car, neck dropped, eyes on his phone.

My brow must have knitted because Trevor said, “Sixteen is a tricky age. He’ll be fine. This is only temporary.”

“If I had a quarter for every time you’ve said temporary,” I said, turning to him, smiling. “I already know it’s ugly in there, I don’t care. You know why?”

“Why?” His eyes lit. He liked games.

“Temporary.”

He smiled, but his eyes dimmed, no longer matching his smile. “You and the kids can go home at any time. Remember that. You guys don’t need to be here.”

I put my palm against his jaw and kissed him on the lips. He tasted like strawberry Starbursts. “Let’s go inside,” I said.

If I could go back, I would have gripped the backs of my arms tight enough to leave nail marks and warned myself, This place is poison.

If I could go back, I would have told myself, Get. Out. Leave the bedding and that favorite coffee mug, grab your people, and get out. Hunther is a diseased tree, its rotten seeds riding the wind to sprout plague in the dirt below your doorstep.

2

2

Trevor unlocked the door and we followed him in.

“Pew!” Emily laughed. “It smells funny in here.”

No humor in his voice, all sixteen-year-old irritability, Sawyer said, “Yeah, smells like old lady, wet dog, and a cigarette.” Was that old lady comment a dig about me? Sawyer could be sweet and cruel within the same conversation. He didn’t mean anything by it. Don’t paint yourself as the hated stepmother.

The foyer was tiny so we spilled into the parlor room. It was a vomit of warm colors. Three lemon-yellow walls. One hombre wall that faded from hot pink to orange to red. Ugly, disturbing, and brilliantly avant-garde. The couch was red, and the throw rug was orange and yellow with red bursting flowers. I felt energized and crazy and slightly nauseous. Maybe I would appreciate this room in the winter.

God help me, let us be back in Chicago by Christmas.