The Confession by Sierra Kincade Page A

uncomfortable sitting alone.
    I didn’t feel anything.
    It wasn’t long before a man took the seat next to me. He was a little younger, and had a tattoo peeking out from the collar of his starched white shirt. A star, or a spiderweb or something. No ring on his finger, no tan line there either. He had intense green eyes and a nice body, and when he placed his hand on my thigh I realized I couldn’t do this.
    â€œI need to go,” I said.
    He raised his hands in surrender. “My bad,” he said. “Sometimes I can come on too strong. Let me buy you a drink to make up for it.”
    I should have gone. I should have stood up right then and walked out.
    Just one drink,
I told myself.
    That was the last thing I remembered.

Six
    â€œM
a’am.”
    My head felt like someone had hit it with a hammer. No, more like it
was
a hammer, and I’d been pounding it against a wall for the last twenty to thirty years. My body didn’t feel much better. Every part of me ached. I felt like I had the flu. I must have caught what my dad had.
    â€œMa’am.” The male voice broke through the ringing in my ears, more insistent this time.
    I blinked. Too much light. God. I either had the flu or the worst hangover in the history of the world. How much had I had to drink? I couldn’t even remember.
    â€œWhat should I do?” he asked.
    He could leave me alone for starters.
    â€œMa’am, can you hear me?” This time it was a woman speaking.
    My hip hurt. And I was freezing. I blinked again. I was so drowsy I could barely keep my eyes open. My fingers spread over the ground, rising up and down the rough bumps in the asphalt.
    Something wasn’t right.
    I was so tired I almost didn’t care.
    â€œGo away,” I muttered.
    â€œShe’s homeless,” said the guy. What the hell was he talking about? Who was homeless?
    â€œShe doesn’t look like it,” said the woman.
    Finally, I succeeded in opening my eyes. The sky was white, painted with thinly stretched clouds, and floating between it and me were two faces. A teenage boy with acne, and a heavyset woman with streaks of red in her hair. They were wearing uniforms. Beige button-up shirts and black pants.
    I shivered, and clutched my arms. My skin was damp and cold. I was only wearing this slinky dress—the same one I’d been in last night at the fund-raiser, only it was open in the back. The zipper must have fallen down.
    The wave of self-consciousness came with nausea, and I slapped a hand over my mouth as the bile clawed up my throat. Sweat broke out over my scalp as I choked it down. Something stank, and as I turned my head, I realized I was propped up against a Dumpster.
    My black dress was dirty and torn open in a slit that went from my knee down. My shoes were gone. I couldn’t find my purse.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” I asked, my voice low. “Where am I?”
    The panic was swelling inside of me, making my head pound harder, my skin too hot.
    â€œWhat’s your name, honey?” the woman asked.
    â€œA-Anna.” I tried to stand but the nausea hit me again. I leaned over my knees and pressed my thumbs into my temples, trying to stop my brain from sloshing around like water.
    â€œAnna, we called your friend.”
    What friend? Marcos brought me home. I remembered that. But then I went out. I couldn’t even remember where.
    â€œHow . . . Who are you?” I asked.
    â€œBetter call the cops, too,” the woman said quietly to the guy, who ran inside the restaurant behind them. My eyes followed him, until they found the play place, separated from the outside by a wall of glass.
    What was I doing here?
    The fear hit me like a slap to the face, and I scrambled up.
    â€œWho are you?” My voice trembled.
    The woman held out her hands. “I’m Rose,” she said. “I work at the restaurant. One of the customers just came in and said they saw you