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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

“We were in an apartment in Yellow Valley. My granddad died and left us the house, so here we are.”

“I’m Trevor.”

“I’m Dawn.”

30

30

HEATHER

“Tell me about your first day of school, guys,” I said.

Emily and Sawyer sat at the table, eating soup and grilled cheese.

“It was great,” Emily said, without even giving it thought. I smiled at her perky enthusiasm, which she most definitely got from Trevor. “I like your bracelets, Momma. I’ve never seen those.” I wore an armful of bangles on my right wrist.

“They’re old. You want to wear one?”

“No thanks,” she said, glancing at my eye makeup. “What about you, Sawyer?” Emily said. “What part did you hate the most?”

“Driver’s Ed,” he said and stuffed a square of grilled cheese in his mouth.

“How come?” she said.

“Everyone already knows how to drive, and they’re all younger than me. I hit a curb. It sucked.”

“You are driving on the first day of class?” I said, alarmed. “That doesn’t seem logical.”

He shrugged. “That’s what I thought too, but everyone’s been driving for years. Tractors, dirt bikes, three-wheelers, snowmobiles.”

“What’s a snowmobile?” Emily said.

“It’s like a jet ski but for snow,” he said.

“What’s a jet ski? Throw me a bone here.” Em was famous for pairing a rudimentary six-year-old’s question with a sarcastic, overly mature remark.

“Like a one-person motorboat,” Sawyer said. “I hate it here.”

“Me too,” Emily said. “Stupid wet shoes and bathroom puddles and Oliver saying girls can’t play soccer.”

I wanted to know more about this Oliver fellow, but they were slipping from me. “Let’s go get donuts,” I blurted.

Marjory’s Greasy Spoon and Donuts had been on my mind since I’d spoken to Ben Greer this morning. I wanted to talk to someone who knew Dawn Young. The restaurant had probably been handed down to the next generation by now, but it was worth a shot.

“No thanks,” Sawyer said, pushing his chair away from the table like it bit him.

“You have to go, Sawyer. You’re driving.” I grabbed the keys from the bowl on the counter and tossed them. “Catch.”

He caught them. “I can’t. I don’t have my permit.”

“The school let you drive without your permit. And if all the other kids have been driving for years, who cares? This is farm country.”

“Literally?” he said.

I loved when he doubted me, when he didn’t know if I was joking or serious. It reminded me; he was still a kid. Young man’s body, young man’s voice, young man’s suave movements, teenager’s silence, teenager’s fury, but still a kid.

“Marjory’s Greasy Spoon and Donuts. Let’s go.”