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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

My nose in my sticker book, I almost missed him. He rushed past me, head down, into the garage. Where was his bookbag?

The garage was deep and sectioned off with metal shelves, their joints rusty, holding spray paint, hoses, and dented cardboard boxes. Opposite the tall rickety shelves was scrap wood of various sizes leaning against the wall, cottony balls of spider sacks clinging along their splintery edges. The shelves and scrap wood made a misshaped doorway of sorts, and I followed him back.

The dangling lightbulb cast a shadow of Rodney’s profile against the stained drywall. He held his hands cradled just below his mouth, his hair sweaty and hanging over his cheek.

“Are the babies OK?” I said.

Startled, he looked over his shoulder at me.

Blood. His lips were shiny with blood. His teeth, outlined in red spit. I didn’t meet his eyes because I couldn’t look away from his mouth.

I couldn’t help but think of him saying, They’re like pink jelly beans.

“Get out,” he said quietly, through clenched teeth. Trembling now, more furious, he said it louder, and his voice cracked. “Get out, Heather.”

“You have to understand, this runs deep. Some of these people are bloodline, meaning, they were raised from birth in this cult. They don’t know anything else.”

Doctor Clifford Paulson, PhD Psychology
Transcripts from the Sixth Annual Conference on
Adult Manifestations of Childhood Trauma

THE RADISSON PLAZA HOTEL, CINCINNATI, OHIO

23

23

When I got home, my phone sat on the table where I’d left it, but it was lit with a text message.

A shiver raced up my spine. I hadn’t received a text about my mom since the day we got here. I both dreaded another cryptic text and was desperate for one.

I should have told the police someone was harassing me. Even with burner phones, they might be able to figure out who it was. I should have told Trevor. I should tell Trevor.

No. You don’t want anyone—stranger or husband—prying into your childhood.

I picked up my phone. The text was from Visha, my neighbor and good friend back home. I exhaled. I’d been holding my breath.

-You alive? I haven’t heard from you since last week and worry the Children of the Corn tied you up on a cross.

I loved Visha for this: taking my distrust of remote towns dramatically further.

-I haven’t seen any crosses, but I did almost get shot by a deer-hunter named Tracy.

-Serious?

-He missed me, but killed the deer.

-Gross. Hey, when are you coming to visit? You’re only two hours away.

-We’re still getting settled. School started today. Me and Em will visit soon. Miss you.

Walking upstairs, I called Guppy Swim School and asked for Desiree.

“Um, she doesn’t work here anymore,” the young man said.