The Confession Read online

  Acclaim for Robert Whitlow

  “With strong writing and solid characters, Whitlow weaves a good tale of a woman straddling two worlds, dream and real. Good pacing and an intricate plot, woven through with spiritual themes and laced with tension, make this an amazing read.”

  — ROMANTIC TIMES 4-1/2 STAR REVIEW OF THE LIVING ROOM

  “. . . an intensely good read . . . Any woman facing the demands of work and family will relate to Amy’s life. The excitement and vivid spirituality Whitlow generates, however, are what will keep readers turning the pages.”

  — BOOKLIST ON THE LIVING ROOM

  “Readers will find plenty to love about this suspenseful novel as they watch its appealing main character juggle personal, professional, and spiritual crisis with a combination of vulnerability and strength.”

  — CBA RETAILERS + RESOURCES ON THE LIVING ROOM

  “Gripping and powerful, The Living Room deftly weaves a stirring account of mystery and faith through one woman’s struggle with family, work, and dreams, both literal and figurative. Crisp writing, engaging characters, and a deeply spiritual message, this is Robert Whitlow in top form.”

  — BILLY COFFEY, AUTHOR OF WHEN MOCKINGBIRDS SING

  “With deft sleight of hand, wonderful characterization, and carefully layered plots, Robert Whitlow has crafted a gripping story about the mysteries of God’s power to shelter the people he loves.”

  — ERIN HEALY, AUTHOR OF AFLOAT, REGARDING THE LIVING ROOM

  “As someone who is deeply involved in the pro-life fight, I found The Choice to be a very relevant overview of what we fight for in this movement. It shows the struggles of abortion and the courageous act of adoption in a way that I haven’t read before in any other book. I had a hard time putting this book down.”

  — ABBY BRANNAM-JOHNSON, FORMER PLANNED PARENTHOOD DIRECTOR AND AUTHOR OF UNPLANNED

  “Whitlow captures the struggle of many women trapped in the battle over abortion in a truly sympathetic and affecting way.”

  — BOOKLIST REVIEW OF THE CHOICE

  “This inspirational story about a mother’s sacrifice has special appeal for pro-life advocates and fans of the legal novel.”

  — CBA RETAILERS + RESOURCES REVIEW OF THE CHOICE

  “Christy Award–winning Whitlow is a lawyer who knows his profession, as his newest legal thriller shows.”

  — PUBLISHERS WEEKLY REVIEW OF WATER’S EDGE

  “A great mystery that will keep you interested until the end.”

  — ROMANTIC TIMES REVIEW OF WATER’S EDGE

  “Fans of Whitlow’s series will enjoy the mix of suspense and romance as Tami has to choose between her love interests.”

  — LIBRARY JOURNAL REVIEW OF GREATER LOVE

  © 2014 by Robert Whitlow

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com And from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-4016-8887-5 (eBook)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Whitlow, Robert, 1954-

  The confession / Robert Whitlow.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-4016-8886-8 (paperback)

  1. Public prosecutors--Fiction. 2. Cold cases (Criminal investigation)--Fiction. 3. Guilt--Fiction. 4. Georgia--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3573.H49837C66 2014

  813'.54--dc23

  2014006235

  14 15 16 17 18 19 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Confession is a bridge everyone must cross. This book is dedicated to the guides of grace who help us in the journey.

  Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

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  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  Reading Group Guide

  Acknowledgments

  If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.

  —1 John 1:9

  Prologue

  Calico was the name his friends gave him when he showed up in fourth grade wearing a multicolored shirt his aunt sent him for Christmas. The name stuck long after the shirt was cut up for cleaning rags. Holt Douglas ran his fingers through his wavy brown hair as he watched Calico’s eyes shift unnaturally in his head.

  “Where’s Leanne?” Calico asked.

  “On the back deck.” Holt paused. “You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?”

  Calico leaned in. Holt could smell the alcohol on his best friend’s breath.

  “She invited me, didn’t she?” Calico asked. “And you slipped in on my coattails.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “By the time we graduate next month, Leanne and I will be together again.” Calico pressed his index finger against his thumb, then took out his wallet and flashed a thick stack of cash. “How much do you want to bet?”

  Holt’s wallet contained a wrinkled five-dollar bill. He pushed Calico’s hand away.

  “Nothing, and you’re totally wasted. Stay away from that green stuff in the punch bowl. I don’t know what Leanne put in it. I drank one glass and started feeling weird. Since then I’ve been sticking to beer.”

  Calico placed his hand against the wall. “The room is spinning like crazy, and I can’t get it to stop. What time is it?”

  Holt checked his watch. “It’s a little past midnight.”

  Calico shook his head as if trying to dispel the fog from his brain. “Dude, your parents are out of town, but I have to make it home and up to my room without getting busted. Our family is going out of town in the morning. Here . . .”

  Calico dug in his pocket and took out the keys to the new convertible he’d received two months before. He handed the keys to Holt.

  “I have no chance of finding reverse. You’re going to have to get us home.”

  “I’ve never driven a stick shift before,” Holt protested.

  “It’s like th
at race car game we play at the arcade. You can do it.”

  Calico’s face turned pale. He spun around and stumbled into the bathroom, leaving the door open. A couple of seconds later Holt heard him retching. Holt slipped the car keys into his pocket. When Calico emerged, his face was wetter than after basketball practice.

  “I tried to take a bath in the sink,” he said. “It didn’t work. Holt, I feel worse than lousy. This party is over for me; we need to get out of here.”

  “Sure.”

  Holt was feeling light-headed himself and knew another beer would push him over the edge. He turned toward the door and took a couple of steps. Calico reached out and grabbed his shoulder.

  “No, I’ve got to see Leanne first.”

  Before Holt could stop him, Calico lurched toward the rear of the house. On the broad deck, two massive speakers were blasting music. A group of twenty-five teenagers milled around laughing and yelling. The green punch bowl was almost empty. Someone grabbed Calico and pulled him toward a group of guys. Leanne came over and put her arm around Holt’s neck. Holt glanced over his shoulder and saw that Calico had his back to them.

  “Take me for a walk down to the lake,” the tall brunette said. “I need to get away from this craziness for a minute and want to show you my dad’s new ski boat.”

  A walk with Leanne would likely involve more than a look at a boat.

  “What about Calico?”

  “He’s dreaming if he thinks we’re getting back together.” Leanne squeezed Holt’s muscular bicep. “And he doesn’t have these.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Holt saw Calico lean over the wooden railing. He was about to earn a new, less cute nickname.

  “Calico’s in bad shape,” Holt said.

  “And whose fault is that?”

  Calico raised his head and stumbled over to them. He burped and raised his hand to his mouth.

  “Are you okay?” Leanne asked. “You look kinda green.”

  “It’s the green stuff in there.” Calico managed a crooked smile as he pointed to the punch bowl. “The dye is coming through my skin.”

  “That’s Hawaiian punch,” Leanne said.

  “It’s punched him out,” Holt said. “He’s done.”

  “He could pass out on the couch in the den,” Leanne said.

  “No.” Calico raised a shaky hand. “And I gotta get Holt home before he gets in trouble on his curfew. Thanks for the invite. I’ll give you a call tomorrow after I come back to earth.”

  Leanne grabbed Holt’s arm and pulled him down to her level so she could whisper in his ear. “You stay and let him go. I’ll take you home after everybody is gone.”

  A two-sport athlete, Holt was in great physical shape, but his knees suddenly felt weak. It took all his loyalty to Calico forged over a decade of friendship to shake his head.

  “No. We came together.”

  “Your loss,” Leanne said as she let go of his arm.

  “What was Leanne saying to you?” Calico asked as they walked up the long driveway.

  “Nothing,” Holt snapped. “Why couldn’t you stay away from that punch bowl?”

  “It happens. Hey, who took care of you when you were almost unconscious the night of the beer bash at Tony’s house?”

  “I learned my lesson.”

  “And this is mine.”

  Holt grunted. They reached the back of a shiny white convertible. Calico held out his hand.

  “Dude, I’m doing way better. I made it up the driveway without crashing on my face. Give me the keys.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  Holt hesitated, then handed over the key ring. Once in the car, he watched as Calico unsuccessfully tried to insert the key into the ignition switch. After the third attempt, Holt reached over and grabbed the keys.

  “That’s it. I’m taking over. If you can’t start the engine, you can’t drive. You’ll get both of us killed.”

  Calico mumbled something unintelligible as they passed each other near the rear bumper.

  “Put the top down,” Calico said as soon as they were back in the vehicle. “I need tons of fresh air or I’m going to throw up again.”

  Holt released the latch that secured the ragtop. “Where’s the button for the roof motor?” he asked.

  “There.” Calico pointed at the console.

  Holt found the button and pressed it. The roof slowly lifted up and peeled back into an opening behind the rear seat.

  “That’s way better,” Calico said as he closed his eyes and rested his head against the seat.

  A diagram beside the shifter showed Holt where the stick needed to be if he wanted to put the car in reverse. Calico opened his eyes and stared upward.

  “Can you see any stars?”

  Holt glanced up. They were far enough from the house that the night sky had unfurled above them. “Yeah.”

  “Holt, I’m not going to medical school.”

  “Good idea. They don’t want drunks operating on people.”

  “I’m serious.”

  In spite of his silly nickname, Calico was a straight-A student and had a full scholarship to Vanderbilt in the fall. For two years he’d had his whole life mapped out—chemistry major, medical school, and so on.

  “Why not?”

  “I haven’t told my parents,” Calico continued, gazing up at the sky. “I’m going to major in English and go to law school. Do you remember my uncle Frank who came to visit last month?”

  Holt had met the stocky man in his fifties with a prominent jaw, bushy gray eyebrows, and piercing dark eyes.

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s been a federal prosecutor for years. Listening to his stories sounded way better than having sick kids cough in my face. My father doesn’t think so, but you don’t have to be a doctor to make your life count for something. The money government lawyers make isn’t that great, but it’s all I’ve been thinking about since he left.” Calico paused. “Along with Leanne.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  Calico closed his eyes. “Yeah, but not the smart part of me.”

  Holt pushed in the clutch and started the engine. Taking a deep breath, he tried to force the shifter in the proper direction. The gears grated and ground in protest. Holt had operated a riding lawn mower with a clutch, but it was much more forgiving than the high-powered car.

  “Gun it,” Calico said, his eyes still shut. “Oh, and keep mashing in the clutch or we’ll run into Mark’s truck.”

  Holt pressed down on the gas pedal until the engine roared. The shifter grudgingly slid into place. Holt slowly let out the clutch as he pressed down on the accelerator. The car lurched backward, and he quickly applied the brake to avoid hitting a car parked behind them. The engine died. Calico turned his head toward Holt.

  “Dude, maybe we should spend the night out here. I can call my dad from Leanne’s house and tell him we had car trouble or something.”

  Holt thought about Leanne’s tempting offer. Calico would crash on the couch, and they could deal with the consequences of the green punch bowl in the morning. Then an unnatural sound came out of Calico’s mouth, and his friend leaned over the side of the car and got sick again.

  “No, I want to go home,” Calico said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “If I call my old man, he’ll drive out here to see what’s wrong with the car. One look at me, and I won’t be leaving the house after dark for a month.”

  Calico’s father was a former army surgeon, and his mom couldn’t handle the truth without freaking out. Holt started the engine again and forced the shifter into first gear. He turned the steering wheel and slowly pulled away from the curb. He barely cleared the bumper of Mark’s truck, then gave the car more gas. It shot forward. Holt pressed in the clutch and shifted into second gear. By the time they reached the highway that ran in front of the lakeside development, he’d made it to fourth gear. He slowed as he approached a stop sign and pressed in the clutch. They came to a smooth halt.


  “You’ve got it,” Calico said, leaning back and closing his eyes again. “When we get to my house, don’t turn into the driveway. Leave the car parked on the street. I’ll move it into the garage in the morning. It’s a tight fit, and I don’t want you putting a big scratch down the side of my father’s new Mercedes.”

  “Okay, let’s get you home,” Holt said more to himself than Calico.

  He waited until there weren’t any cars coming from either direction and pulled onto the highway. This time he shifted much better through the gears. The wind whistled past his face as he accelerated to highway speed. He checked the speedometer to make sure he wasn’t going too fast. They rounded a looping curve and came to a long, straight stretch of road. No headlights approached. Holt glanced in the rearview mirror and didn’t see a car behind them. They had the road to themselves. Holt stepped on the gas, and the engine growled as the car sped up. The convertible was a lot smoother than the car Holt normally had to drive, a cheap import passed down from his older sister.

  Suddenly, out the corner of his eye, he saw movement. Calico had his hand over his mouth. Holt flipped on the car’s high beams. There was a sharply descending ditch on the right-hand side of the road, and he couldn’t see a good place to pull over so Calico could throw up. Calico leaned his head toward the side of the car. Holt took his eyes off the road to make sure Calico wasn’t getting sick on the beige floorboard carpet. The car swerved slightly, and the right front tire slipped off the roadway and dropped down onto the soft shoulder.

  The next few seconds were an insane swirl of twisting chaos. Then everything went black.

  Holt woke up to a voice.

  “He’s over here!”

  Holt groaned. He raised his hand and touched the side of his head near his right ear. It felt sticky and wet. He was lying in a bed of pine straw. A tree branch was poking him in the lower back. He struggled to sit up. Sharp pains shot through his chest. A light shone in his eyes, accompanied by the voice he’d heard.

  “Stay down! Don’t try to move!”

  The high-speed ride to the hospital was a blurry haze of sirens and flashing lights. An oxygen mask over Holt’s face kept him from talking. Two male EMTs rolled him through a set of large sliding-glass doors into a triage room. A few moments later a middle-aged nurse slipped the oxygen mask from his face. She stuck a thermometer in the corner of his mouth.