BooksBarbecue
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

Sawyer’s adult hand, broad and muscular, wisps of hair on the knuckles, moved in front of the caterpillar, waiting for the caterpillar’s feet, pair by pair, to break suction with the leaf and move onto his hand. A single beam of harsh afternoon sun lit a shiny red smear along his thumb that he didn’t seem to notice.

Blood. My mind immediately traveled to fights on the bus and nosebleeds from cocaine-abraded noses.

You’re terrible. Why would you assume the worst?

“You’re bleeding,” I said.

“I’m fine,” he said, impatience creeping into his voice. Caterpillar move complete, Sawyer’s face changed. Stoney, dark eyes. Blank. As if moments before he had been faking being human.

This, this shadow moving across his face, across his soul, was his normal. He would be in a moment of childlike wonder, you’d blink, and he’d appear cold. I wavered between worrying about Sawyer’s behavior and talking myself out of worry. I told myself, this is just teenage boys, or maybe teenagers in general. Remember how temperamental you were as a teen.

“Your dad thinks I’m nuts with this. Your fault, since you’re the one who found them,” I said, teasing, trying to make him smile. He ignored me, grabbed his backpack, and headed for the stairs, his movements smooth and athletic.

“You hungry?” I said, more out of politeness than practically. I hadn’t made food. What was in the refrigerator? “Hey, we have guacamole and chips.”

He said nothing. He was already stomping upstairs, his shoes hitting the carpet heavily. Sawyer’s door banged shut.

I considered following him upstairs, trying to draw him out of his room, impress him with my story of almost getting shot by a deer-hunter today, but I didn’t want to come across as desperate.

He spent so much time in his room. What did he do in there? Self-mutilation? Porn? Snapchat? Classical music? Read novels? Practice his cursive? Pray the rosary? There was so much innocence and malevolence a kid could get into with just a phone and earbuds.

The front doorbell rang, and I jumped. I clearly hadn’t shaken this morning’s gunshot.

26

26

Speak of the deer-slaughterer.

Tracy Summers stood on my doorstep. This man had bloodied the forest trail for me, and his devil worship comment had trawled up a strange memory. I didn’t like him.

I peered through the glass panels, reluctant to open the door. Tracy made eye contact and, showing me something bright orange, mumbled something I couldn’t quite hear.

Feeling lame that I’d hesitated, I opened the door.

“Heather Bishop with the great last name, I brought you something.” In his hand was a limp piece of orange fabric, shiny and slick. My mind was grasping. Raincoat? Life jacket?