She Lied She Died
Carissa Ann Lynch

One More Chapter

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Carissa Ann Lynch 2020

Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover photograph © Mark Owen/Trevillion Images

Carissa Ann Lynch asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008421038

Ebook Edition © December 2020 ISBN: 9780008421021

Version: 2020-10-23

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Thank you for reading…

The One Night Stand: Chapter 1

The One Night Stand: Chapter 2

The One Night Stand: Chapter 3

The One Night Stand: Chapter 4

The One Night Stand: Chapter 5

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About the Author

Also by Carissa Ann Lynch

One more chapter...

About the Publisher

Dedicated to Shannon

Thank you for your wisdom and late-night advice when my characters got in sticky situations I couldn’t get them out of. And for teaching me how to play chess—one of these days I might win.

“A truth that’s told with bad intent

Beats all the lies you can invent.”

— William Blake, “Auguries of Innocence”

Chapter One

I was nine years old when the murder happened.

Old enough to taste fresh-found fear in the air; young enough to feel unscathed by it.

Alone in the farmhouse, I squatted on my haunches in front of my brother Jack’s bedroom window, eyes peeping over the ledge as far as they dared, faded binoculars shielding my face.

Jack would have killed me if he knew what I was doing because: 1. I was never allowed to enter his room, uninvited. 2. I’d gone through his trunk, which contained his “private things” (if you consider pics of naked girls with hairy bushes, and a pair of binoculars, “private”) and worst of all: 3. I’d borrowed those precious binoculars.

Jack was away, visiting with our dad’s aunt, my quirky Great Aunt Lane. Six years my senior, Jack and I were as close as two siblings that spread apart in age could be, I guess.

But Jack’s anger and disapproval about me being in his room were the farthest thing from my mind … he wasn’t here to stop me, and even if he was … something important was happening, something that went above and beyond everyday sibling squabbles.

I’d been quarantined to my bedroom, courtesy of Mom and Dad.

“Don’t come out until we tell you.”

“We have an important meeting to tend to.”

But I knew. I didn’t know what exactly … but I knew something bad had happened.

Sirens raged across the field, so loud my chest rumbled, thrumming in rhythm with the abhorrent beat.

My room—my temporary prison—was equipped with two windows, but unfortunately, both faced the trees. Wrong side.

I’d fought hard for this room—it was slightly smaller than my brother’s, but the rich green view was superior, and it had a built-in bookshelf to boot. Now, for the first time, I regretted my choice.

The urgency and excitement … that knocking fear … that call of importance—all of it was coming from the other side of the house.

So, I’d crawled across the knotty pine floors, army-woman style, until I’d reached my brother’s bedroom. It was unlocked, as was his precious trunk, and the binoculars were the prize I’d been hoping for.

I adjusted the binoculars on my face. They were old, too big for me. But they were my best bet because the chaos was happening across the field.

Through the foggy lens, I searched for my mother and father. But they were nowhere to be found.

There were others—several others, in fact. A cluster of people formed a strange, mystic circle in the centre of the field, a cloud of low-slung fog forming a blanket around them. Like ancient druids, they were engaged in some sort of ritual…

I let my wild imagination run its course, then I readjusted my viewpoint.

The source of the sirens was obvious—an ambulance had pulled right through the center of Daddy’s field, mowing down crops and kicking up mud. There were thick wet tire tracks in the soil.

The doors of the ambulance were left flung open on the driver’s side and cab; the flash of the sirens glittered like rubies.

The circle-jerks weren’t moving, but I could tell they were looking. Looking at what, exactly? I wondered. Heads ducked low, hands on hips … there was one man with his hands folded behind his head. Another was a woman covering her mouth and nose…

My next thought—a stupid one—was that maybe there was one of those crop circles in Daddy’s field. I’d read something about them in Jack’s sci-fi magazine, the one with the grainy image of Nessie, with her long neck and protruding humps, on the cover. I hadn’t believed a word of it.

As I trained the binoculars on the circle, willing the lens to focus, I realized that most of them were in uniform. Cops. Boring!

Suddenly, the man with his hands behind his head pivoted. He turned away from the others. Moving, marching, he was headed straight toward my house.

No, not the house … toward Mom and Dad. For the first time, I spotted them, huddled at the edge of the property. My dad, William, and my mother, Sophie. They looked too soft and young to be farmers. And, in reality, they weren’t. Just two young people trying to have a place to call their own, to carry on a family tradition…

For the first time, they looked their age, faces grim and tight with worry.

Dad’s hairy arm was draped over Mom’s tiny, narrow shoulders. She was … shaking.

As the mysterious policeman crossed the field, trotting toward them, I was mesmerized by him … with his thick black hair and chiseled body, he looked scruffy and world-weary, but in a good way—like that actor in Hollywood Detective.

He stopped in front of Mom and Dad, hands resting on his waistband, fingers itching his gun like an outlaw from the Wild West.

Suddenly, he pointed across the field, gesturing wildly. Even behind a sheet of glass, I thought I heard Mom’s sorrowful wail, “Oh noooo.”

There was a gap in the circle now, I realized, pulling my eyes away from the cop and my parents. I zoomed in as far as the binoculars allowed, and for the first time, I could see inside the secret circle.

I could see what the fuss was about.

Knuckles white, I willed my hands not to shake. Willed myself not to look away…

There was a girl in the center of the circle. Fragile and small, she lay curled up on the ground, like one of those pill bugs we called “rollie pollies”.

It wasn’t natural, the way she was bent … arms and legs sharply curved and folded in, like a clay sculpture you could shape and mold, bend at will…

Could it be an alien … or better yet … a mannequin posed for a prank?

Sitting back on my haunches, I took a few deep breaths, then poked my head up again.

This time, the crowd had thinned out more, and as I zoomed in again … I saw her completely. For the first time, the lenses were crystal clear.

She was real—human. White skin, pale hair to match. Thin, white strands of hair blew around her face like corn silk. Her fingers were curled up by her mouth, nails painted matte black like the night sky.

Eyelids open, one gray eye bulged out at me like a grape being squeezed between my thumb and forefinger …

The rolling in my stomach was less of a roll and more of a lurch. I was barely on my feet when the vomit came. It sprang from my mouth and nose, and although I tried, pathetically, to catch it in my hands, there was just too much of it.

I puked on my brother’s favorite Star Wars blanket and CD tower, then I curled up on the floor like that thing in the field, trying to erase the image burned on the back of my eyelids.

It's not real. It’s not real. Please tell me it’s not real.

Chapter Two

Three truths.

One lie.

I’ve lived in the same shitty town for most of my life.

A girl named Jenny Juliott was murdered in my own “backyard”.

I’m an aspiring writer who moonlights as a Kmart cashier.

Jenny Juliott’s killer was never caught.

That original image of Jenny’s face—moon-white and ominous in the early morning light—those bulgy eyeballs and dead gray irises … that image had evolved over the years. Replaced by one replica after another … there is her face, the way I think I saw it that day … and then there are the memories, and later, the flashes of crime scene photos I pored over in my free time.

I didn’t know her—of course I didn’t; she was fourteen and I was nine. We may have lived in the same shitty town of Austin, Indiana, but we didn’t know each other at all. Despite what they say about small towns, we do not all know each other.

But, over the years, I came to know everything about the girl with the white-blonde hair and the haunting gray eyes who smoked skinny cigarettes called Virginia Slims and who would never age a day over fourteen in the hearts and minds of Austin’s residents.

Jenny Juliott had a mother, a father, and an older brother around Jack’s age.

It was weeks before the crime scene was cleared from our property, reflective yellow caution tape stirring in the wind like a warning flag. Little bits of it floating around the property like confetti…

Years later, after the crime was solved and her killer was locked away in prison, I was digging around, looking for dandelions—not the yellow ones, but the ones you wish on—and I found what looked like a strip of gold in the dirt.

But it wasn’t gold; far from it. It was that stupid old crime scene tape, bits of it still rotting around the edges of our property, still strung up in the branches of trees where it had gotten blown around that summer. A reminder that it wasn’t all a bad dream, as much as we wanted it to be…

After Jenny was murdered, my parents pretended nothing happened … this was their way. That had always been their way. Perhaps they saw it as protecting me, but I saw it as treating me like an imbecile.

The lies we sometimes tell ourselves—or, in their case, lies were simply omissions.

“Nothing for you to worry about, dear.”

“She was a wild girl, must have got caught up in some trouble.”

“This is the safest town in three counties.”

Lies.

Lies.

Lies.

Because the first thing my parents did was replace the locks on the front, back, and sides of the house. Days of riding my bike to my best friend Adrianna’s were over. So were the days of slumber parties, playing outside alone, and walking to school or down to the park with friends.

Most of my friends, and their parents too, were too afraid to come to the farm. As though my family might be involved in her death, or that death itself might be contagious if you got too close.

There are two types of people in this world: those who drive by fast, avoiding the scene of a tragedy, and those who slow to a crawl, chicken heads bobbing up and down through the windows just to catch a glimpse of where a young girl died.

After the tragedy on the farm, we got a little of both types. Those who wanted to avoid us, and the creeps who wouldn’t leave us alone.

At school, there were stirrings … I heard a few things, but since I was only in third grade at the time, a lot of the true grisly details were shielded from us.

But it didn’t stop us from creating our own.

“Someone killed her. Hacked her up with a chainsaw. She must have pissed someone off right good.”

“I heard aliens abducted her then dropped her down from the sky.”

“They fed her to the pigs on the Breyas farm.”

“Oink oink, Natalie. Oink oink.”

Lies. All lies.

We didn’t even own pigs, dammit.

It wasn’t until I turned the ripe age of fourteen, the same age Jenny was when she died, that I learned some things that were true.

Jenny Juliott wasn’t killed on my family’s farm—she was dumped there. She had been strangled and stabbed, and the police knew who did it, because the killer confessed: the confessor’s name was Chrissy Cornwall.

Chrissy Cornwall: resident Austin tough girl who grew up on the “other side of the tracks”. It just so happened that that “other side” was across the creek and through the woods from my family’s farm.

Chrissy was fifteen when she committed the murder. She had jet-black hair, oddly streaked with flakes of gray at an early age—or was it white, like lightning? I couldn’t be certain. I knew her even less than I knew Jenny.

Chrissy and Jenny were not friends; they didn’t even attend the same school.

Chrissy was “homeschooled” by her mother—and by “homeschooled”, I mean that they requested to teach her at home but never did. Unlike Jenny, who grew up in a nice middle-class home with a stay-at-home mother and a pastor father and attended Austin Middle School with most of the other kids in town, Chrissy was an outcast. An unknown.

Jenny bought ripped jeans from outlet malls and painted her nails black with twelve-dollar polish. Chrissy’s pants were ripped with time, and from scrapping with her hoodlum brothers on the front lawn of her daddy’s trailer lot.

Jenny was smart, pretty. Chrissy was … I don’t know what you’d call her. Poor white trash, I guess.

On paper, Jenny and Chrissy had nothing in common. But there was one thread that tied them together, and that thread had a name: John Bishop.

John went to school with Jenny and the others, and he and Jenny were dating. But, unbeknownst to Jenny and the rest of the kids, John had a girl on the side—the dirty girl whose parents didn’t send her to school, the girl with the strange black-gray hair who lived in a trailer.

And that trailer was a hop and a skip from my family’s farm.

There were many people to blame for Chrissy’s actions—her parents for their lack of supervision and education, the state for not following up on reports of abuse, the school for letting a girl who didn’t attend there kidnap another in the school parking lot …

But most of all, we blamed the guilty party: Chrissy herself.

She was jealous and angry, and determined to make Jenny pay for messing around with John, whom she felt she had a claim to.

Those are the scarecrow details.

Over the years, much more has come out. But some parts are still a mystery. I guess when it comes down to it … you can never fully understand the heart of a person—why would anyone kill someone over a stupid boy? And to do it so brutally…

I hadn’t thought about the case in over a decade. Chrissy had been tried and convicted, sentenced to life in prison despite her age at the time of the crime. I used to be obsessed, but not any more.

The media had forgotten, as had I; we’d moved on to similar cases, ones with gorier details and more exciting bylines splashed across the nightly news.

But, of course, Austin hadn’t forgotten. And as much as I tried to push it away, I hadn’t let it go either. Jenny was always there; a memory, a warning … a piece of my childhood I couldn’t get back. Perhaps there was a small part of me that blamed her death for the fallout of my own childhood…

A lot can change in thirty years—but a lot can stay the same.

The third step on the corkscrew staircase still creaks when I step on it; the bathroom and cellar still stink of Clorox and mold like they did when Mom and Dad lived here.

Inheriting my family’s farm ten years ago should have been a blessing, and when I was thirty, it had sort of felt like one. But thirty turned into thirty-five, and just last week, I celebrated my fortieth birthday the way I did my thirty-ninth—alone.

Wearing only socks and undies, I tiptoed from my room—my parents’ former bedroom—and made my way for the stairs. Every light in the house was off, which was how I liked it. If I can’t see the shadows, then they can’t see me…

As I wound my way up the stairs, I caught a glimpse of moonlight through the picture windows in the kitchen … it can’t be much later than two, maybe three, in the morning…

So, what woke me?

There were sounds, but nothing unusual. The creaky old floorboards, the low hum of the refrigerator downstairs, the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in my office, which I’d converted from Jack’s old bedroom.

Sometimes I caught glimpses of the place as it was before … Mom in the living room reading paperback mysteries, Dad at the table with the Times, and Jack mounted up in the living room watching Star Wars … their ghosts, just a flicker of movement, a light hollowed sound through the walls…

But there was something else this morning, something real … whiny and synchronous, coming from the side of the house. And just like that, my legs were shorter and thinner … I was nine years old again, creeping toward my brother’s bedroom window, following the warning moans that lay beyond the dingy clapboard walls of my daddy’s farmhouse.

It can’t be. There’s no reason for an ambulance … no way there’s anything out there. Maybe this is all a dream … a memory…

The door to Jack’s old bedroom was closed up tight. I’d like to think I kept it closed to ensure the privacy of my home office, but in truth, I think I did it out of habit.

Jack would want it that way.

I nudged the door open with my foot and, trancelike, I tiptoed toward the window facing the field.

When someone dies, it’s not unusual for their family or friends to keep their rooms exactly as they once were. But with Jack … I couldn’t. Erasing him felt better, easier … and so, the first thing I did when I moved back home ten years ago was tear out the carpet and take his old bedroom furniture out and replace it with a modern oak desk and shelves. A computer and a desk—the necessities for any writer. But I hadn’t written a word in years.

As I edged closer to the window, there was no doubt: someone was out in the field. But that sound … it wasn’t sirens; no gaudy red rubies bouncing through the trees, ricocheting from my heart to my head.

But what I saw took my breath away.

A circle of people, each one holding a candle in front of them.

Thirty years later, and still: the first thing that comes to mind is a pagan ritual.

They were singing, something low and melancholy, flames from their candles casting ghoulish shadows over their faces.

I felt a flicker of rage. How dare they waltz on my property like they own the place? This isn’t a tourist attraction!

But in a way it had been … people had come from all over to see the “spot” the first few years after the murder. Sometimes, Dad would chase them off with a shotgun … but after a while, he took to ignoring them. “Easier that way,” he told me.

But since I’d come home, there hadn’t been a single unwanted visitor. Until now.

I’d assumed that most had forgotten Jenny Juliott and the girl who’d killed her.

Snapping the bolts to unlock the window, I shoved on the glass and poked my head all the way out, forgetting about my lacy black bra.

“Hey! What are you doing?” I shouted. It was windy, and chilly for October, and my words blew back angrily in my face.

I tried again. “Hello! It’s, like, two in the morning…” I screamed so loud I could feel veins protruding from my forehead.

And just like that, the singing stopped. Nearly a dozen heads turned my way.

“Hey, Natalie,” came a woman’s voice in the dark. As I squinted, she stepped into the sliver of moonlight in the field and pushed back the hood of a dark gray sweatshirt.

She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her. Was she someone I went to school with?

It’s funny how over time every face looks familiar, but at the same time, I could never remember names. My childhood just a splotch on my memory board…

“Hey,” I answered, dully.

Another woman stepped up beside the first. This one had black curls and, despite the chill in the air, she was wearing a white T-shirt and thin multi-colored yoga pants. A face I’d never forget: Adrianna Montgomery, forgotten friend turned local columnist. I tried to avoid her in town at all costs, but I saw her occasionally at the supermarket and Kmart when I was working. I usually pretended not to and luckily, she did the same.

“Natalie, it’s good to see you. Sorry we’re out here, but we tried to call you first … we wanted to honor Jenny, especially considering the latest news. We can’t forget what that monster did to her, you know?” Adrianna said.

The latest news?

My lousy paychecks from Kmart weren’t enough to justify getting cable. I had just enough to eat, fill up my car with gas, and gas the tractor for cutting the field in the warmer months … I didn’t keep up with local news, or national news either.

“What news? I haven’t seen it,” I said, voice barely above a whisper.

The other faces in the crowd slowly materialized like old ghosts; I recognized a few of my former classmates and Jenny’s brother in the crowd. My heart sank with guilt when I saw him. Although I’d seen most of the others around town, I hadn’t seen him in years. I’d heard that he moved away.

As a kid, whenever Mom or I would see Jenny’s family in town after the murder, we’d avert our eyes. Try to make ourselves invisible. Not because we blamed them, of course, but because we didn’t know what to say … what can you say to someone who’s lost a loved one that way? And perhaps, there was also a nasty little sliver inside us, that selfish part that worried their tragedy might become ours. That somehow it was contagious … in the same way people avoided me and my home because of what happened here…

Unfortunately for us, avoiding the Juliotts didn’t do us any good because look at what happened to Jack.

So, as Mike Juliott stepped forward, I forced myself to meet his gaze. He was her brother—if anyone had a right to be here it was him.

Mike cleared his throat. “Didn’t you hear? They’re letting that monster out. Bitch got paroled. Chrissy Cornwall is coming home.”

Chapter Three

Chrissy Cornwall is coming home. Five words I thought I’d never hear.

Mike Juliott’s mid-morning announcement rolled over and back in my gullet as I scraped watery eggs onto my plate and buttered two pieces of toast.

It was Thursday, which meant I had the day off (a pretty shitty day to have off, I admit), but I was up early anyway.

No matter how late my mother stayed up at night, she always rose for the day by 5am. As a kid, her early-morning antics had irritated me no end—on weekends, I’d tried to sleep in, but then I’d hear her: banging pots in the kitchen, boiling tea by the light of the moon.

One time I asked her why she did it—what is the point of it all?

“I used to sleep in like you do, but then I realized that I feel better about myself when I wake up early. There’s no guilt, and it makes for a good night’s rest.”

At the time, it sounded stupid.

But as an adult, I understood.

There is nothing worse than lying in bed at night with regrets and getting up early to accomplish everything I need to do reduces that slightly.

I munched my toast, ate a spoonful of eggs, then chugged half a cup of coffee. There was a list of things I needed to do—grocery shopping, laundry, etc.

But all I could think about was Chrissy Cornwall.

Could it be true?

When they sentenced her to life, we all assumed that meant she would stay in prison for “life”.

I understood why Mike was angry; he had every right to be. And the other people … well, most of the townsfolk had children, and I could understand why they didn’t want a murderer in town.

But my heart was in knots about it, my feelings mixed. Chrissy was fifteen when she got locked up. That must make her, what? Forty-five or forty-six?

Thinking back to who I was at fifteen versus who I was now … so many things had changed.

But at the same time, nothing has.

I was still the same girl deep inside, only now my mousy brown hair was streaked with gray, my face a spider web of wrinkles and broken blood vessels.

And as I looked around the same dingy kitchen from my childhood, with its peeling daisy wallpaper and cock-a-doodle-doo plaques on the wall … I felt more certain than ever that time was standing still.

I’m still here. Still me. I never thought I would be stuck in the same place, but I am. And if I haven’t changed much, has Chrissy? Do any of us … really?

I left as soon as I had the chance, right after my high school graduation. I had big dreams of going to college and becoming a writer, and I fulfilled one of those—I worked a tough package-handling job that helped pay for my tiny apartment and covered the school expenses that my student loans didn’t. I sacrificed my social life and moved to a college town in neighboring Kentucky where I had no family, no friends… I thought I’d have plenty of time for the fun stuff after college. But then Jack happened and somehow, I was back where I started—doing nothing with my degree, and just as lonely (if not more) here than I ever had been.

Yes, I had changed. It was hard not to after all that I’d gone through. And for the sake of Austin, I hoped Chrissy had changed too.

If she was really coming home, the town would be buzzing with it soon.

They already are, I realized, circling back to those ghoulish faces I’d seen in the field last night.

I scrubbed my dish and fork with soap and water, then left them to dry in the sink. Taking my coffee with me, I trudged up the stairs to my office. It had been so long since I’d turned on my computer, since I’d felt the punchy feel of my keys.

I missed writing. But mostly, I missed the hope I’d held onto for so long—that one day I’d produce a great book. I wrote every night in my little apartment in Kentucky, mostly fiction—in the small gaps of time between work and school. I’d tried pitching some of my ideas to small publishers and agents, but without any luck.

Since coming home ten years ago, I’d been unable to write much of anything. Austin was, essentially, uninspiring.

My fingers glided effortlessly across the keyboard, typing Chrissy’s name in the Google search bar. I shivered despite the heat of my coffee—is the furnace going out? Why is it so damn cold in October?

It had been years since I’d checked up on Chrissy or researched the Juliott murder. As a teen and young adult, I’d been obsessed, and the invention of the internet had been both a blessing and a curse—it provided a wider window for my obsession and provided access to the horrors I’d tried—and failed—to forget.

The crime scene photos online were eerie. Some fake, but most of them real. And like the photos, the stories were a mix—conspiracy theories, repetitive summaries of the case. Podcasts and articles were helpful, and addictive, but the story was too complex for a six-paragraph op-ed.

It’s not like the story hadn’t been written—it had: twice. Little Angel in the Field and Evil in Austin had flown off the shelves. I’d dreamed of writing the story myself—who better than me?—but I’d never been able to get past the first few pages. After all, everything had already been written… What more do I have to add to the discussion? And what do I really know about writing true crime?

Several news articles filled my screen: the headline Child Killer Released caught my eye immediately.

Child Killer Released. It wasn’t a lie exactly—but it was a double entendre. Yes, Chrissy had murdered a kid—but what the headline failed to capture was the fact that she had been a kid herself when she did it. Did the person writing this intend for the reader to feel confused? Is Chrissy a child killer, or a child who killed? She’s both, I reminded myself. Both.

I scrolled and scrolled, reading more: Jenny Juliott’s Killer Released from Indiana Women’s Prison. I focused on another article instead, one with a more gripping headline: Something Wicked This Way Comes: The Monster Returns to Austin.

I clicked, immediately recognizing the article’s author, Adrianna Montgomery: class president, town know-it-all, and senior columnist of the Austin Gazette.

She’d been standing in the dark amongst the others last night, her eyes judging me as they had for years…

Once upon a time, we had been best of friends. But that all changed after Jenny. Adrianna’s parents had fallen into the category of people who tried to avoid our family and our house as much as possible. Adrianna was no longer allowed to come over, and at school, she avoided me there too. Even now, when I saw her in town, there was this wall between us … something dark and hard. Impenetrable. I hated her for turning her back on me, for standing back while the others at school teased me about the farm and what happened there. And now, seeing her flourishing as a journalist made me cringe with jealousy.

I read the first few lines of her article:

It’s been thirty years since the beloved Jenny Juliott was brutally sacrificed on the Breyas Farm. It feels like only yesterday to those who loved her. So, imagine the shock and outrage we all felt when we heard the news: Chrissy Cornwall is getting out of prison. What sort of failing system lets a monster like her out after only thirty years? Townspeople should take to the streets, petition the mayor—

I minimized the screen, rubbing my eyes in annoyance. The article was bullshit. Adrianna Montgomery had been my age when the murder happened. She didn’t know the beloved Jenny any more than I did. And calling her murder a ‘sacrifice’ made it sound like something from the occult. The murder didn’t even happen on our property … she was dumped here.

Any minute now, the field will be crawling with reporters … hunting witches in Austin. Thanks a lot, Adrianna.

I clicked on another article, this one national news from Crime Times. I waited for the grainy image to load, tapping the desk impatiently.

When it did, I gasped.

It was a split shot—on the left, a mugshot of Chrissy with her jet-black hair and hypnotic blue eyes. I’d seen this photo a million times over the years—she had grinned in her arrest photo, exposing gapped front teeth and her feral demeanor. Little shocks of white in her hair gave her an ethereal quality.

She looked like a maniac.

But the photo on the right was something else entirely … it showed a middle-aged woman, with stringy salt-and-pepper hair and sad gunmetal-gray eyes being escorted out of prison. This time, when Chrissy’s eyes met the camera, she hadn’t smiled.

She looked downright sad and ashamed. Defeated.

I maximized the image, studying the woman that I hadn’t seen in years—there had been a few photos from prison, but nothing in more than a decade. Supposedly, she had denied all interviews with the press after her trial.

There were no traces of the girl in the woman. Where did she go?

Her jowls were thicker, her chin whiskery … and she’d put on nearly fifty pounds. It was hard to correlate the wild teen in the mug shot with this sad old woman beside her.

Skipping over the article itself, I typed in the search bar: Where is Chrissy Cornwall moving to in Austin.

I didn’t expect to find an answer—surely, she’d try to keep her address private. And I knew she wasn’t moving back to her childhood home by the creek because it had been abandoned for years now, her deadbeat parents skipping town for good and local teens trashing the place during midnight drunk dares to visit the murderer’s house…

But my search provided an immediate hit. Not only was her address online, but also the addresses for every living relative of hers in the country.

Someone had discovered her location, essentially doxing her.

4840 Willow Run Road.

Stunned, I settled back in my chair, reading the address over and over again. Not only was Chrissy coming home, but she was moving less than a mile from here. It made sense why she’d picked it; Austin was a small farming community, but most people lived in the center business district of town. She was moving to the outskirts near me—the place where outcasts reside.

Is she already there? Already moved in? I wondered. The thought of her being so close, breathing the same recycled air as me, made my stomach twist with unease.

I did another search, trying to figure out when she had been released exactly. I got an instant hit—they let her out two days ago.

Willow Run Road was a long road, but I guessed she was moving into one of the trailers people sold or rented out there. Who is paying for her place? I wondered. Somebody must be.

With a sideways glance out the window, I looked on as reporters grazed through my field like wide-eyed cows.

I didn’t even hear them pull in.

A flash of cold white skin, those bulgy gray eyes…

I stood up and went to the window, lowering the blinds.

The monster is back.

But is she a monster … or simply misunderstood? What truly motivated her crime that day? My thoughts were stuck on those two words: child killer.

Even now, a small part of me was filled with doubt. The violence of it … it didn’t seem like something a kid would do. It had never made sense to me.

Most of the conspiracy theories I’d read online were bogus—there were people who believed she was framed, some blaming her parents, Jenny’s brother … even a few who mentioned my brother or parents.

But her guilt was never in question. After all, she confessed to the crime.

And yet, I’d always felt like there was something more … a missing link to the story. Something more than a silly crush on a boy had to have motivated such violence…

The media had lost interest in the case over the years, but I had a feeling with her recent release, the cycle would begin again.

If I’m going to write the story, now is the time.

But what is there to say that hasn’t already been hashed over a million times? The only person who can tell me more is Chrissy herself.

Determinedly, I took a seat in front of the computer and pulled up Microsoft Word. I started typing a letter, but then, changing my mind, I opened a drawer, taking out thick tan sheets of stationery and a ballpoint pen.

Handwritten is more personal.

Head bent low, I began crafting a letter to a killer.

The chances of Chrissy Cornwall agreeing to speak with me were slim to none, but what did I have to lose?

So, imagine my surprise when, a few days later, she showed up at my front door.

Chapter Four

Icy cold breaths crackled the morning air and I shivered, clutching the thick gray quilt to my chest. That damn furnace … it has to be like, what? Fifty degrees in here?

My shift didn’t start until noon and after my late-night scrolling on subreddit about the case, I needed an extra hour or two of sleep…

I closed my eyes, teeth chattering despite the heavy blanket.

My eyes fluttered open again as I heard the panic-inducing thumps at the front door. Even now, thirty years later, the sounds of knocking disturbed me. Reporters, cops … you never knew who would turn up at the Breyas farm.

Ignore them.

I scurried deeper under the blankets, covering my mouth and nose. Squeezing my eyes shut as I tried to keep my nerves at bay…

But the thumping grew louder. More determined.

Fuck.

And there was something else too … the buzz and whine of voices. I pushed the covers back, listening.

There’s more than one person out there.

The whir of voices grew louder, until there was no mistaking it: people were shouting.

I threw the covers off with a low growl and stumbled out of my parents’ old bed.

The wood floors felt like patches of ice beneath my bare feet as I tiptoed to the front living room, trying not to make a sound.

“What are your plans here? How do you know Natalie Breyas?” A nervous rush of fear at the sound of my own name lodged in my chest and throat. Breathlessly, I pressed my ear to the thick wooden door, struggling to interpret the buzz of what could only be an angry hive of reporters outside.

A sick trickle of fear came over me as I had a flash of memory—my dad in the doorway, cameras flashing in his eyes … he’d reached for one of the cameras, hands tangling with the reporter instead, and as I’d watched the incident unfold on the local news, I’d been filled with horror and shame. My dad’s reaction to the reporters had been understandable, but not to them … Is Robert Breyas a violent man? What does he have to hide? That’s what the next day’s headlines had read.

They had wanted to make him look bad. And they succeeded.

They also succeeded in driving my mother away. She was never the same after that, and finally she left us for good, at a time in my life when I needed her most.

I yelped as another bang vibrated through my cheek and ricocheted through my skull.

Whoever was on the other side wasn’t giving up.

Remembering my dad’s regrettable fury, I composed myself, smoothing licks of wild hair from my face and wiping residue from last night’s mascara from my cheeks.

“Evil bitch!” That was a man’s voice, a booming rasp of pure hatred.

Before I could change my mind, I unlatched the deadbolt and swung the front door open. Morning sunlight and the flash of a dozen cameras bombarded me, and temporarily, I was blind. Shielding my face, I squinted out at the hazy crowds of people and the mess of news vans tearing up my front yard.

But they all faded to static … background noise … because leaning against the side of my house, head ducked protectively to her chest, was someone I recognized. In the dusty haze of cold morning light, she looked almost … celestial. Head lifted, her eyes raising to meet mine…

She opened her mouth and said, “Hello. I’m Chrissy Cornwall.”

Chapter Five

As though I didn’t already know that. How could I not? I’d studied her face … dreamed of it, even.

Once again, I was baffled by her appearance. On TV a few days ago, she had looked old and pitiful. Some might even say regretful.

But now, face red and rageful, jaw jumping in her cheek … she looked like the feral woman from before.

“Who the fuck do they think they are, huh? I did my time. And I’m still doing it! They surround Dennis’s trailer night and day, banging on the window like vultures. That has to be a crime, doesn’t it? Harassment, or something?!”

I couldn’t respond. Couldn’t breathe.

Chrissy Cornwall, convicted child killer and killer of children, was standing in the center of my living room, hands on her hips like she owned the place. Unknowingly, I had backed myself into a corner of the room, arms crossed over my chest and backside pressed against a wobbly bookshelf that housed dozens of true crime novels. Including the two that featured none other than Chrissy herself.

Chrissy was tall and broad-shouldered—larger than she’d looked in her photos. She unraveled a soft blue scarf from around her neck, endlessly twisting, then plucked a matching wool hat off her head. I watched as she shook out her shiny long locks of hair—it had been washed recently, the scent of jasmine floating through the air. Her hair had also been dyed—the wiry black hair with the silvery streaks was gone, replaced with an odd attempt at going blonde that gave her hair a peachy look.

Chrissy raised her still-dark eyebrows at me and smiled expectantly. When I said nothing, she sighed, then folded up her scarf. She placed it neatly on the loveseat, along with her hat.

“I got your letter. I thought you wanted to talk to me,” she said, her eyes crinkling with amusement. She leaned her head right, then left, studying me, then added, “You look scared. Don’t be scared of me.”

A small whoosh of breath escaped from between my lips. As though being told, “Don’t be scared of me” by a convicted killer was any real consolation.

Truth was, I wasn’t so much scared as I was shocked. My brain running twenty paces behind, I couldn’t catch up with what my eyes were seeing.

Like when I’d found Jack… I’d been … frozen. Brain too stunned to absorb the truth, too slow to react.

I cleared my throat. “Ummm … would you like to sit down?” It was someone else’s voice coming out of me, robotic and strange.

“Yes, but can we move away from here?” Chrissy thumbed the front window behind her. The curtains were drawn—they always were—but there were still people outside. Talking. Shouting. Then another bang at the front door.

But that was all background noise. My mind sharpened as I studied Chrissy’s face. I sent her a letter and she came. She actually came to my house…

Her face was tired … and haggard. A web of wrinkles sprouted from her eyes and mouth, and a scar I hadn’t noticed in her picture the other day—a shimmery white line on her left cheek—ran from the bottom of her left eye to the top of her lip line. Did someone cut her in prison?

I’d asked if I could write her story. But I didn’t ask her to show up like this. It seems like a violation—turning up at my front door with no warning, the rabid press trailing behind her … but this is what I wanted, isn’t it?

I thought back to my letter … to me, neatly folding the paper and sliding it in the envelope … to me, slowly and hopefully licking the seal, and carefully filling out the return address when I could have simply left it blank.

You knew what you were doing when you sent it, I told myself. And it’s not like she couldn’t have found out where you lived anyway … a few simple clicks online and we’re all exposed these days.

This was my chance—the one I’d dreamed of for so many years. Access to the story that could change my life. And a chance to hear the truth from her.

But I had to get things off on the right foot … I had to stay professional, in control.

Chrissy was staring, eyes wide and still slightly amused, as she waited for me to move, to react…

“Stay here while I change and brush my teeth. We’ll talk upstairs in my office, if that works for you. Would you like some coffee or tea?”

Chrissy smiled, that sliver of amusement replaced with genuine gratitude. “Yes, please. I’m so out of breath from dealing with those fuckers outside. They followed me the whole way here, from my trailer to your house…”

My heart was drumming in my chest as I made my way through the galley kitchen and down the hall to my room to get changed. She hadn’t even told me which she wanted, coffee or tea, and I had no questions prepared … no clue where to start. And what should I do about the people on my front lawn?

But I needn’t have worried about that—I’d barely slipped into my sweater and leggings when I heard a rush of voices and then Chrissy’s words shouting: “Natalie Breyas is writing my story! The true story about what happened all those years ago. So, if you want to hear what I have to say, then you’ll have to wait to read the book.”

I opened the door to my bedroom, smoothing my hair, body tight with shock all over again. Emerging in the hallway, I saw Chrissy towering in the open front doorway, a flash of reporters splayed before her, like lovesick—or hatesick—fans groveling to get onstage.

A roar of questions erupted, but Chrissy simply raised both arms like Jesus and shouted, “The story of my innocence is coming!”

Chapter Six

“I must admit. I’m pretty shocked you showed up at my house. What made you decide to talk to me?” I asked, a mixed flutter of anxiety and excitement building inside me.

Chrissy Cornwall sat across from me, the cherry oak desktop creating a barrier between us.

“Honestly? Your letter touched me. It didn’t seem judgmental or angry. More like … I don’t know … curious. I’ve wanted to tell my side of the story for a long time now. And I had a feeling you’d contact me one of these days … I wasn’t expecting it to be so soon though.” Chrissy twisted her shiny peach hair in a knot at the base of her skull, fidgeting in her seat.

“Why did you expect me to reach out?” I asked, breathlessly. We didn’t know each other; we’d barely crossed paths at all as children. I hadn’t reached out to her over the years … but why did it feel so right that she knew? Almost like I’ve always expected this moment too.

Chrissy shrugged. “I don’t know. Because it happened here. You were a witness to the fallout, I suppose. More so than any of those assholes outside.”

An odd sense of pride washed over me; I was glad she trusted me enough to talk, after all these years.

“Truth is, nothing about this case has ever sat well with me. It rocked my whole childhood … my entire family, actually…” I admitted.

Chrissy nodded sympathetically, as though she understood what it felt like to be in my shoes. But she doesn’t, I tried to remind myself. She wasn’t around to see the fallout the murder left behind; how the town went to shit, and my mother ran off and left me.

“You are the first person from this town who has expressed interest in hearing my side of the story. And the trial … if you followed it, then you know I didn’t take the stand in my own defense. The version the lawyers gave … well, that was their version of events. By the way, I remember your brother. How is he?”

My breath lodged in my throat at the mention of Jack. Her question had thrown me.

How is he?

Doesn’t Chrissy know what happened? She’s been in prison, but I know they have TVs in there … surely, she knows the truth about Jack …

“He passed away several years ago. I didn’t realize you knew each other, much. Although I’m not surprised since you all were around the same age.” I swallowed.

I waited for what I knew would come next: I’m sorry for your loss. How did he die? Because let’s face it: when somebody young dies prematurely, we all want to know what happened. And we’re all sorry. So damn sorry.

But Chrissy surprised me by not pushing it further.

“I met him a few times when I went to parties with my brother and with John,” she explained.

The mention of John Bishop also gave me a start. He was the reason Chrissy had killed Jenny—the beginning of the end of everything for both girls. One went to prison for life and the other lost her life … all over a boy.

But, as it turns out, “life in prison” didn’t mean forever. Not in Chrissy’s case.

“Are you okay? You look pale.” Chrissy raised her eyebrows. I was still unnerved by her presence here; and those odd dark brows and the new hair color threw me off.

“May I be frank with you?” I asked.

Honesty. Frankness. Does Chrissy Cornwall understand those concepts, or is she as evil as the media portrayed? I wondered.

Being truthful was risky, but establishing rapport was imperative.

“Yes, please. I’ve always respected people who are forthright. Better that way ’cause then I always know where I stand…” Chrissy leaned forward, placing both hands on the desk. After a few seconds, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was something normal—a conversation between two girl friends over tea.

I said, “I’m completely unprepared for this. And it’s important for you to know that I’ve never been published before. I don’t have an agent or book deal lined up. I’m sure there are other people with more experience and support who could write this book about you. Don’t get me wrong, I want to do it. But I need to be honest. And I’ll need more time to prepare questions and talk to you, and think this through before I start…”

Chrissy waved her hands, lips puckered up in disgust. “I don’t care about money or deals. I just want to tell my side of things for once. And it’s okay if you’re not ready. I did kind of show up on your doorstep out of the blue … sorry about that.”

I nodded. “That’s okay. But coming here … isn’t it strange for you?”

Slowly, I pointed toward the office window, the one facing the field. The blinds were drawn tight, but still … thirty years later, and the gruesome image of Jenny’s corpse lying in the field hadn’t faded. Not for me.

Chrissy glanced toward the window. Thoughtfully, she chewed on her lower lip. It was almost like she’d forgotten … that she didn’t realize she was sitting less than a football field’s distance from where poor little Jenny had lain…

“Sometimes when I look out there, it’s like I still expect to see her … her body … well, I guess you know,” I said.

Nervously, I averted my eyes from hers, softly reaching over to brush my fingertips on a silver letter opener. If she had wanted to, Chrissy could have snatched it up and slit my throat the moment we entered this room. For the first time, reality set in … I’m alone in my house with a killer. Sure, there’s news media outside, but no one is here to save me.

Daddy had owned several rifles and pistols, but I didn’t have them anymore. Not after what happened with Jack…

But for some strange reason, I didn’t feel afraid. Chrissy seemed genuine and … non-threatening.

Chrissy’s eyes moved from the window, down to the opener I was touching, then back up at me. For a moment, I was convinced that she could read my thoughts, fears reading out like a teleprompter in front of my face…

“It must have been hard for you, growing up here after what happened.”

“It was strange, to say the least,” I replied.

“And your folks are the ones who found the body, right? I mean … I know they are because I read through the police notes a million times and I saw both of them at the trial. Was that stressful for you?” Chrissy asked.

Why does it feel like I’m the one being interviewed, all of a sudden?

“Yeah. I was nine at the time. My parents actually tried to keep me locked away in my room while the police investigated. But I saw the body … I saw Jenny that day.”

“Jenny…” Chrissy said, her eyes watery and distant.

Her eyes glazed over; it was like she was seeing something beyond my vision. I waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t.

Does she feel remorseful? Is she thinking about the poor girl she supposedly killed that day?

But my thoughts circled back to that speech she’d made to the reporters…

“What you said earlier about being innocent … is that true?”

Chrissy’s focus was back, her eyes zeroed in on mine like two tiny black beads. For a flicker of a second, I thought I saw fury behind them.

“That’s why I said yes to your letter. Why I’m saying yes to you now … because if anyone knows the details of this case and knows the story … it’s you. If I can convince you of my innocence, then maybe I can convince the world. And I feel like you deserve to hear it after all these years, considering you were around to experience it at the time.”

I didn’t expect this interview to happen and I certainly never, in a million years, would have expected her to deny her crimes. I cleared my throat and kept my voice even, unsure what to say next.

“If you were innocent of killing Jenny Juliott, why did you confess to the crime?” I asked, tentatively.

“They didn’t leave me much choice, did they?” Chrissy snapped, her voice raising defensively.

“Who is ‘they’?”

“Them. You. The whole god damn town. Not a single person would have believed it.” Chrissy sat back in her seat and sighed.

“Believed what?” my voice a shaky whisper now.

Chrissy leaned forward and I did too. The small gap of desktop between us forgotten.

“That when bad girls lie, good girls die.”

I sat back in my chair, exasperated. What the hell does that mean?

“Well, if you didn’t kill her then who did?”

Chrissy smiled, showing all her teeth for the first time. They were crooked with a distinctive gap, just like the thousands of photos I’d stared at online. There was something ferocious about that smile … something hungry and wild. A chill started at the base of my spine and prickled all the way to my scalp.

Why is she smiling like that?

“The answer is actually pretty obvious if you think about it. I was set up,” Chrissy said.

“By whom?” I asked, breathlessly.

I leaned forward again, eager to hear what came next. But the sounds of a blaring car horn outside interrupted us.

“Sorry. I have to go. That’s my ride. Dennis.”

She stood up and I stood up too.

“You’re going already?”

“Yeah. I wanted to meet you first. Size you up. Same time tomorrow?” Chrissy said with a wild grin.

Moments later, I peered through the curtains as a burly man with a full-sleeve of tattoos led Chrissy through the crowd of reporters, barreling through them and elbowing a path for her.

Size me up. What the hell does that mean?

And who is Dennis?

The tattooed man wrenched open the passenger door of his monster-sized Dodge truck and gave her a boost inside, his hand lingering on the seat of her jeans.

He peeled out of my driveway and moments later, the crowd of reporters were gone. Like the blowflies swarming around Jenny’s body, once the corpse was gone, they were too…

Yet one car remained in the gravel drive—a shiny gold Toyota.

Through the window, I stared at the dark-haired woman behind the wheel and she stared back at me. Her eyes were angry green slashes; her rosebud lips puckered up with disdain. Disdain for me, or for Chrissy? Possibly both…?

“Go away, Adrianna. Stop posturing,” I muttered to myself.

I waited for her to either get out and try to talk to me or leave. I was relieved when she chose the latter.

There was no love lost between us; I couldn’t forgive her for turning her back on me. Just like Mom, she gave up on me when I needed an ally.

A smile formed at the corner of my lips as I thought about Adrianna and her dramatic headlines, her ruthless pursuit of her own interests … at least my story would be unbiased.

But I don’t even know what the whole story is yet … what did Chrissy mean by those words—good girls lie, and bad girls die, or was it the other way around?

Chapter Seven

Through the window of my office, I watched the sun slowly melt beyond the horizon, casting the field in a hellish, firefly radiance that felt less like a warming sunset and more like a warning glow. This is bad. So bad.

But why do I feel this bubble of rising excitement? Like today is THE day … a defining moment that could change the course of my life…?

I wanted to write a book—not just a one-off bestseller, but something that could breathe life into my writing career that had never lifted off the ground…

But not just that: I wanted answers. What had happened that day in the field? If Chrissy didn’t kill Jenny Juliott, then who did? Am I a fool for considering that she might be telling the truth…?

The glass of whiskey wobbled in my hand as I brought it up to my lips. Knocking it back, I closed my eyes, letting the smoky burn of the Woodford flood my airways and settle hotly in the center of my chest.

But is it worth it? The press and the pressure? The ominous task of getting closer to a potential killer to learn the truth, or at least her version of it? Do I want to know the truth?

Chrissy was gone, our brief first interview concluded hours ago … but part of her still lingered on the other side of my desk: the smell of shampoo and acidic hair dye, the way her personality filled out the entire room when she spoke…

I’d spent the hour jotting down notes. And now, as I gawked at my scratchy writing from earlier, it looked like a nervous splotch of nothingness. Worthless.

In truth, I’d spent most of the hour trying to control my breathing and feigning that I was listening while my heart beat like a wild drum in my chest.

Chrissy showing up at my front door had given me a jolt … is that why she did it? Perhaps catching the media and me by surprise was exactly what she was going for.

She’d made a spectacle of it, riling up the press. Perhaps she’d intended to do that too. But if she’s truly innocent, who could blame her?

I flipped the legal pad over on the desk and poured another glass. I didn’t need my notes to remember … it was all etched in my brain, word after shaky word.

And who the hell is this guy she’s with, Dennis?

I carried the warm, watery glass of whiskey to my room. Shivering, I crawled beneath the covers and drained the rest of it.

I can figure out more tomorrow … for now, I need to sleep because Chrissy will be back…

Dennis Alinsky. Mystery solved.

The clock in the lower-right corner of my computer informed me that it was nearly 4am.

Sleep had eluded me for hours. Finally, I’d given in, emerging from bed and finding my way back to my office. No matter how many times I tried to call it my office, it would always be my brother’s room.

Jack’s bed was gone, and the sturdy oak dressers had been replaced by a heart pine desk and a stiff rosy armchair I’d picked up at Goodwill when I rearranged the room. Nearly ten years he’d been gone…

Head still throbbing from the whiskey earlier, I stared at a picture of Dennis Alinsky online.

Dennis was on Facebook and Twitter too, but he didn’t make many posts and his friends list was tiny. A welder by night and motorcycle enthusiast by day (according to his bio), he was originally from Pittsburgh. His family was from there; even his job and motorcycle pals were there.

But Dennis had moved to Austin, Indiana six months ago, renting the empty trailer on Willow Run Road. The question was: why?

It took a while to make the connection, but online court documents provided some clarity. The rough and tough biker had no legal problems, but that wasn’t the case for his sister Alison.

Alison was his only connection to Indiana, as that was where she was serving her own life sentence. Unlike Chrissy, hers was without parole.

Alison Alinsky, age thirty-four. She had served four years already—her lifelong sentence only just beginning. According to the brief charges listed on the crime database and the more detailed news accounts online, Alison had killed her four-year-old son, Toby.

Alison had held his tiny, unsuspecting head underwater. I pinched my eyes closed and massaged my temples, trying to squeeze the intrusive images of it away.

Alison had denied responsibility. According to her, a shape-shifting demon had entered her home and killed him. A long history of mental health issues and a decent lawyer weren’t enough to save her. The jury reached its verdict in little more than an hour.

Because a search of Alison’s internet history revealed the truth: that she’d been researching methods of getting rid of her son that ranged from suffocation and poisoning to black market adoption. For his sake, I wish she would have chosen the latter.

Despite the grisly details and eerie appeal of reading up on Alison’s case, I couldn’t find any connection between her and Chrissy except that they had spent four years in the same maximum-security Indiana prison. Had they been friends behind bars? Is that how Chrissy came in contact with Alison’s brother, Dennis? Did Alison play matchmaker, hooking up her brother with another killer?

I jotted down a few notes. I will ask Chrissy about him in the morning and find out what the connection is to Alison.

I also wanted to know why she was back. Why not move to Pittsburgh with Dennis if they were dating? Why choose here, the place where all the horror began?

And her statements to the press claiming her innocence … why change the story now? Why not file for an appeal or get another lawyer while still behind bars? Why not fight the charges from the get-go?

I minimized news articles about the drowning of Toby Alinsky and pulled up the same news video I’d watched a dozen times already.

The angle was different—instead of viewing Chrissy from behind, making her wild statements on my front porch, I saw her from the camera’s point of view. Head held high, shoulders thrust back defiantly, she looked straight into the camera and announced our plans of writing her story before we’d ever even discussed it.

A story of innocence, one they’d all have to read if they wanted to know the truth…

It sent chills down my spine, but for some reason I couldn’t stop watching. She shimmered in the spotlight, transforming from belligerent social deviant to pitiful, then transforming again to this beautiful, polished, in-control, determined woman who preached from the front steps of the farm where her victim’s body had been found.

The strange orange hair actually suited her.

Chrissy’s face wasn’t the only one in the news. I couldn’t bear to watch or read too much … seeing myself on camera, hearing clips of my name and history and connection to the case were overwhelming.

Yes, I wanted the story. But I didn’t want the spotlight. And I thought I’d be better prepared.

The media interest wasn’t only local either. Sandy Jonas, the host of Crime Times International, had reviewed the case on air tonight and mentioned my name. I loved her podcast, but not anymore. I cringed just thinking of her words; they pierced right through me like a knife, twisting my gut pretzel-style and threatening to make me upchuck for the third time tonight.

Sandy, with her sassy know-it-all southern drawl, had said: “At first, I thought: who is this no-name wannabe writer who’s been tricked into using her mediocre talents to shine a spotlight on a manipulator like Chrissy Cornwall? But then I made the connection: Breyas. I know that name. Guys, you know it too! Chrissy’s victim was discovered on the Breyas farm. And who is this amateur with no writing credits to her name? None other than Natalie Breyas herself. Natalie was only nine years old when Jenny Juliott’s body was found on her family’s farm. As far as I know, there’s been no correspondence between the two women over the years. Yet Natalie still resides in Austin, Indiana. And get this: she still owns the family farm. As someone who is obsessed with crime, it makes sense to me that this young unemployed woman would be fascinated by Chrissy … by this boogeyman from her youth. She has a degree in creative writing, people! But she’s never wrote a book. What the hell does she know about investigative writing? I have some serious concerns. Natalie, honey, if you’re listening … don’t be fooled by that monster. Chrissy is a sociopath, through and through. She killed that girl and ruined her family’s entire life. Hell, in some ways, you could say she ruined yours too. If I remember my history, the brother offed himself many years ago and the mother ran off and skipped town too…”

I turned it off then, my body shaking with … what? Anger, maybe. But mostly humiliation. I’m not desperate or unemployed. Sandy makes me sound like a desperate loser. And just because I have a degree and no writing credits doesn’t mean I can’t write well.

But her words were having more of an effect on me than I would have liked to admit. Was I foolish to agree to writing this story? I didn’t want to help Chrissy if that meant hurting Jenny’s family and friends even more than they’d already been hurt…

Did I make a mistake when I let her in?

What was I thinking when I reached out to her in the first place?

But as much as the public wanted to question my competence and motives … I still wanted to hear what Chrissy had to say. Was it morbid curiosity? Maybe.

But it was something else too … something deeper and darker inside me that wanted to understand how someone who lived only a dozen acres away from me could have turned out so differently.

I wanted to dig deeper, truly understand this “monster”, or “boogeyman from my youth” as Sandy Jonas had called her. If she was lying about her innocence, then I’d expose the truth in my book and reveal her as a calculated con-woman in addition to her reputation as a murderer.

And if she’s telling the truth … well, the implications of that would be astronomical. Because if Chrissy didn’t do it, then someone else did. And reaching for the truth might lead me to another suspect … and what if I’m wrong, or worse: what if Chrissy’s lying and this whole thing has the potential to destroy other people’s lives…?

I stood up from my desk and stretched. My head was still swimming from the whiskey earlier; my eyes heavy with sleep and my lower back achy from leaning over during my talk with Chrissy and while scrolling online endlessly for hours.

The sun would be up in a few hours and Chrissy would return. I needed to be ready this time—this is my chance to prove myself and to get to the bottom of the truth.

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