Confess to Me by Sharon Doering

Author:Sharon Doering
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Titan

“Worshipping the devil is not necessarily crazier than worshipping God. Just like the love of God makes people feel special, so does the love of Satan.”

Doctor Clifford Paulson, PhD Psychology

Transcripts from the Sixth Annual Conference on

Adult Manifestations of Childhood Trauma

THE RADISSON PLAZA HOTEL, CINCINNATI, OHIO

40

TREVOR

Vibration pulled me above the rippled surface of sleep. Your phone is buzzing. I reached under my pillow for my phone and forced my sleepy eyelids open. 1:15 a.m. You have so much more time to sleep. I let my eyelids fall, my bones feeling heavy like quicksand, but—

My phone continued buzzing. Shit, that’s your other phone. I reached down to my briefcase beside the bed, into the leather folds and compartments, blind-feeling for it.

I’d missed the call, but there was a text waiting.

-Out front.

Cold adrenaline surged through me, yanking my body abruptly from sleep.

Had Heather heard my phone?

Before I rolled over to check, it sunk in. She was with my mom.

I laid back onto my pillow and typed, furious, but tired.

-You can’t come to my house. We talked about this yesterday. Meet tomorrow.

-I need you now.

-My mom is DYIng. I started typing in caps, but didn’t have the energy to follow through. -I have my hands full. I’m sleeping.

I closed my eyes, relishing the give of my pillow, and rubbed my toes against my warm tented comforter while I waited.

-I need to give you something right now. I guess I could always come back around for breakfast with the kids.

Fuck.

-Give me a few minutes to get dressed.

-No need to dress fancy for me, Trevor. I’m not interested in your clothes.

-I need to check on the kids first.

-And I need you to clear your schedule for tomorrow.

Fuck.

Stepping into yesterday’s worn-in, softly creased work pants, I stumbled and stuck my hand out against the windowpane to catch my fall. I grabbed my shoes and shuffled out of my bedroom to check on the kids.

Emily was flat on her back, her blankets kicked onto the floor, sleeping in her underwear. That kid went to bed in fuzzy pants and a long-sleeved shirt because she was so cold, but as the night went on, she baked.

Sawyer slept with his door closed. That was fine. I’d lubricated the brackets with liquid silicone before we’d moved in, and we had a no-locking-your-door-at-night policy for the sake of fire safety.

I turned the handle. Locked. Damn it, Sawyer.

I fetched a flathead screwdriver.

Hours ago, I had stopped Sawyer in the hallway after his shower. Caught him at his most vulnerable, skin moist, towel around his naked waist.

Sawyer admitted that a couple of kids he’d met at school brought him to a party, then to the woods to shoot. I was fine with both. I’d done the same thing with friends when I was sixteen. Guns were the norm in this town. Both high schools gave kids three days off in November for hunting. I had walked into school on those mornings, wearing my knife, my rifle strapped around my neck, to grab homework. I told Sawyer I’d take him shooting a few more times, that it was safer to go with his dad.

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