She Lied She Died Page 6

  For the first time since meeting the real Chrissy Cornwall in person, I tried to imagine her doing all those things they said. Memories of Jenny’s bloated face from the crime photos … the knife wounds on her neck and back … the burn marks on her hands and face…

  My stomach curled in on itself as I considered that she might be just as guilty as everyone said.

  But still, I don’t quite believe that.

  Chrissy reached for her pack of smokes again, studying my face as it became clear.

  “Look, I know it’s strange that I can laugh about it now. But when you grow up the way we did, you have to find humor in the stupid shit. Weeks later, my daddy broke Joey’s nose in a bar brawl, and then the next thing we knew, he was coming around to apologize to mama, and to the boys. They all mended their ways and Joey got out of the drug business. Years later they would laugh about that night … I guess that’s why I’m laughing too.”

  I thought about what it might be like—really like—growing up as a Cornwall in Austin. Sure, my family was poor. But Chrissy’s family took it to another level, and they never apologized for it.

  “Tell me about John Bishop.”

  Chrissy took a drag and narrowed her eyes, thinking for a minute before she spoke.

  “The papers said I was obsessed with him, but it was him who pursued me…”

  “Were you boyfriend and girlfriend?” It sounded so childish saying it that way, but I didn’t know how else to ask. According to the media, John had been dating both girls.

  “Boys like John Bishop didn’t date girls like me. They dated girls like Jenny Juliott. The only thing he wanted from me was sex,” Chrissy said, bitterly.

  Thinking back to pictures of John and Jenny as a couple … even in the dead of winter, John had this dog days of summer tan—golden brown and healthy, his hair white hot like it was bleached by rays of the sun. And Jenny … she was even more noticeable. With her hitched-up skirts, narrow waist, and voluptuous curves she reminded us all of a playboy bunny. Her skin was tan, her beachy waves golden blonde to match John’s. But despite her grotesque beauty, she was lovely and kind, and just as smart as she was sweet. She was what the papers and stories would call “the girl next door”.

  But I guess that all depends on who lives next door. For me, through the field and across the creek was a wild and rambunctious girl who was pretty but dirty, attractive but damaged … Chrissy was “the girl next door” to my family.

  When the news broke of Jenny’s death, I saw so many ludicrous headlines. They didn’t really bother me until I was older, until I was wise enough to get it, to finally understand how the world worked…

  “Too pretty to die” read one of the headlines. As though ugly people are more deserving of murder…

  And another: “What could have been—Jenny Juliott’s Potential”. It was an article in Fifteen magazine … an analysis by a “modeling expert” that went on to claim Jenny had had everything they were looking for. Perfect skin and cheekbones … the height, weight, and unique presence needed to make it onto the runway.

  As though somehow her potential in modeling made her death more meaningful … Jenny was smart, but nobody ever mentioned that in their articles. It was all about her skin and her cheekbones … her shocking baby blue eyes…

  “What are you thinking about?”

  I jumped at the sound of Chrissy’s voice; her question sounded so intimate and she was leaning across the table, her hand stretching toward mine, so close I could almost feel her odd vibrations bursting from her fingertips and seeping into my own…

  “I was remembering Jenny,” I said, earnestly.

  “Ah. Yes, Jenny…”

  “You knew they were dating. I mean, yes … you were homeschooled. But everyone in Austin knew that John and Jenny were a couple. Can you tell me how you and John met? When did it start between you…?”

  Chrissy said, “Well, I’m sure you know what they said in the papers. What the prosecutors said in court…”

  I nodded. I did. But I wanted to hear it from her.

  “It was summer when I went to the party with Trevor. My brother was older, like I said, so he hung out with a lot of kids much older than me. See, unlike me and Trent … Trevor was bitter because he wanted to go to school. He liked hanging out with those silly rich kids, no offense.”

  I certainly wouldn’t call most of them “rich kids”. My brother and I didn’t fit that bill at all. But, in Chrissy’s eyes, I could see how she saw it that way…

  “Truth be told, they couldn’t stand Trevor. But you know why they liked him around?”

  I took a long sip of my lukewarm beer. When I realized she was waiting for me to ask, I swallowed and said, “No. Why?”

  “Trevor could fight. And if there were one thing those snotty-ass kids liked to do when they got drunk it was having a good brawl in the front yard. Beating Trevor was the gold standard, you see. Not a single one of them could do it.”

  “What did your brother get out of it?”

  Chrissy snorted. “That fucker loved to fight. Still does probably…”

  “Do you still communicate with your family?”

  Chrissy’s teasing smile evaporated. “No.”

  “They didn’t come to see you in prison?”

  She shook her head.

  “Not even once?”

  Chrissy put up a finger. “Once. My father came. I could see it in his eyes when he sat down … the horror and the shame he felt, seeing his baby girl behind bars.”

  “What did he say?”

  “It was me who did all the talking. I told him and Mom to move on, my brothers too … to let me do my time in peace. Jenny’s time with her family was over; didn’t seem fair for me to get to see mine.”

  “That doesn’t sound like something an innocent person would say, no offense.” The words flowed like honey from my tongue, the beer loosening me up already. “I’m sorry,” I added, scooting the drink away with my fingertips.

  Chrissy frowned. “No, you’re right. It doesn’t. It’s exactly what a guilty person would say. But I never denied feeling bad about what happened to Jenny. Guilt and remorse … do you really think the person who did all those terrible things to her was capable of feeling regret?”

  Flashes of crime scene photos bombarded my memories … and the real view—the only one that mattered … her wounds jagged and deep, the burn marks on her face and hands. No, whoever did that is pure evil, I decided.

  Chrissy seemed gloomy and headstrong, a woman with a dark past.

  But a killer? I just can’t see it.

  “We got off-track for a second. We were talking about how you met John,” I recalled.

  Chrissy smiled. “Ah yes. John Bishop. How could I forget? I met him at a party with Trevor. He didn’t like to take me with him, but sometimes he had to … when my mom tried to get her shit together, she took a night job. It was great ’cause it meant we had a steady income and she was staying clean … but Dad was still out on the road a lot, so my brothers had to take care of me. Trent was older, with his own friends by then, which meant I was left in the care of Trevor most nights.”

  “Did your mom know you were going to those parties?”

  Chrissy shrugged. “I don’t think so, but what choice did she have? My brother wouldn’t have listened to her even if she had forbade him to take me.”

  “And John?” I pressed.

  “John … he was a pretty boy; I’ll give him that. But he was way too stuck up for me.”

  “But you all did date…” I pressed.

  “All you school brats … you had to put a name to everything. The truth is that I wasn’t into him at first. It was all him, constantly asking me to come hang out. Writing notes. I wanted no part of it, honestly. But, then, finally … I agreed to hang out with him one-on-one.”

  This didn’t ring true to me either. In every story and article I’d read, Chrissy was supposedly obsessed with John and hated his steady girlfriend, Jenny…

>   “What made you change your mind and agree to see him?” I asked, going along with her version of the story.

  “He grew on me, I guess. But that was before I got to see the real side of him. He rarely saw Jenny outside of school; did you know that?”

  I did. Jenny Juliott was a preacher’s daughter. The way she was raised was probably the complete opposite of Chrissy Cornwall.

  “I think I did know that,” I said, quietly.

  The real side of John Bishop. What did that entail? The papers had made him out to be the popular kid … the all-American athlete with good grades and a killer smile. The kind of boy girls would kill for…

  “I don’t think John had ever met a girl like me. I smoked and drank. I wasn’t afraid to mess around … and I wasn’t stuck up like Jenny. After she found out he liked me, she started smoking and even trying to dress like me … you probably don’t believe me.”

  “No, I do. I’m just taking it all in. According to the news it was you who pursued him…”

  “They lied. But does it matter? The results were the same. A girl still wound up dead,” Chrissy said, solemnly.

  Her eyes were glassy, a gleam to them I hadn’t seen before.

  “It might matter. If someone set you up, Chrissy … or you know who really did this … you should tell me,” I spoke, softly.

  Chrissy yawned. “I’m tired. Is it okay if we talk more tomorrow? I’ll shoot you an email when I’m free.”

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed. It was midnight, but I could have listened to Chrissy talk all night…

  “No problem. Just let me know.” I picked up the unused tape recorder and closed my notebook.

  “I have something for you to look at when you get home. Wait here,” Chrissy said.

  She stood and sauntered down a dark hallway. For a brief moment, I imagined her emerging from the shadows … a dark silhouette wielding a big bloody knife in her hands…

  It was hard to separate the Chrissy now from the Chrissy in the stories. She didn’t seem dangerous to me, but how could I know for sure?

  When she returned, Chrissy was carrying a crusty old shoebox. “Don’t lose any of this, okay? I’ve been saving this stuff forever.”

  I took the box from her hands. I was tempted to lift the lid but didn’t.

  “Okay. Talk to you tomorrow,” I said.

  I saw myself out, watching from my seat in the driveway as all the lights in the trailer dimmed, one by one. The box was on the passenger seat, calling my name. Perhaps there would be some good bits and pieces I could use in my interview, or even pics I could include inside the book.

  As I drove home, listening to sad songs on the radio, I was smiling despite myself. My thoughts were swirling with visions of my future book. Could I do it? Turn out a real, readable story about the murder of Jenny Juliott? I imagined what it would look like—bold, catchy title on the front and glossy, never-before-seen photos on the inside…

  As much as I wanted to indulge in my fantasy of seeing a book with my name on it, what I wanted more than anything right now was answers. More than answers … I wanted the truth.

  Chapter Nine

  The wind was vicious as I climbed out of my car, gripping my keys in one hand and balancing the old shoe box in the other. From the gravel drive, the farmhouse looked sad and abandoned. I’d forgotten to flip the porch light on when I’d left in a hurry; it looked silent and dark, an empty house in an empty field under a sad, empty night sky.

  The only light to guide my path to the front door was the cold white moon hovering above the field.

  Once upon a time, the field had been teeming with crops and farm equipment. The bright red pole barn, where my dad used to spend so much of his free time, was lopsided and streaked with mold. My brother had lain new gravel inside it, but it was rickety and swaying … the whole thing needed new paint, new walls … or maybe it just needed to be torn down completely. It wasn’t like I used it anymore.

  The field stretched on and on, the grass overgrown but dried out, the split-level fence swaying dangerously in the wind. The farm was a forgotten wasteland. In the distance, trees formed a line between our property and that of the Cornwalls. Only the Cornwalls had been gone for many years now, the old trailer empty and ghostlike, hidden beyond the trees.

  The trees, too, swayed dangerously in the breeze, their branches reaching like gnarly old hands … reaching for me, accusing me. How could you help this woman?

  I stumbled up to the front porch, teeth chattering from the cold, and after a few tries, I was able to slip my key in correctly and let myself inside.

  I flipped on switches in the living room and kitchen, setting the place aglow, chasing away faceless ghosts…

  I dropped the shoe box on the kitchen table, giving it one last leery look before trotting to my bedroom to fetch my robe. The inside of the farmhouse wasn’t much warmer than the cold elements outside. I checked the thermostat. Barely sixty.

  Damn heater’s going out again.

  In my bedroom, I slipped on my ratty black robe that used to be Dad’s. It was motheaten and frayed, but it was thick, warm, and comforting. I need that now.

  I twisted my hair in a tight knot on top of my head and returned to the box in the kitchen. I had an idea of what might be inside—photos, probably—or perhaps court documents that Chrissy had saved.

  The clock on the stove revealed it was almost one in the morning, but I couldn’t sleep without taking a look. I took a seat and peeled back the lid, instantly hit by the smell of something dusty and sweet, like old fruit.

  The first thing I saw was an envelope, unlabeled. After peeking under the fold, I realized I was right about one thing—these were definitely pictures. Nearly a dozen old polaroids were tucked inside the envelope. Gently, I removed the stack then spread the photos out like a fan across my kitchen table.

  The first photo was of a girl, barely five or six. I recognized her immediately. Lips as pale as her skin, she was wearing a tired smile, the gap between her front teeth already prominent.

  The photo of Chrissy was old, the details of her face pixelated and dull. But there was an eerie stillness to it; and I thought to myself: this photo would look great in the mid-section of my book when it’s done.

  But there was something else too—the innocence of her smile, the wide-eyed excitement in her eyes. Chrissy had been a little girl just like me, poor but full of promise. How did it all go wrong?

  That was the only picture of Chrissy by herself … the rest were of various family members—Trevor and Trent, I presumed—a young dark-haired toddler and another boy with dark hair who was only six or seven. And then there were two of the entire family—Ruby and Alec Cornwall, with a boy on either side of them, and a plump-faced infant in an old-fashioned dress and bonnet ensemble on Ruby’s lap. I stared at the bright eyes and playful smile … it’s hard to imagine that someone so innocent, so sweet, could commit such a heinous act. It might have been cut and dried for the rest of Austin, but I always felt like there was so much more… Maybe it’s because I was so young and didn’t get all the details, but it felt like there was something missing.

  Chrissy was so young and innocent; the perfect scapegoat for the crime.

  But, as I knew from reading true life crime stories, sometimes the most obvious explanation was the right one. Chrissy did seem to be the only one back then with a motive.

  And don’t forget the confession, I reminded myself, warily.

  I flipped through a few more photos, unable to shake off the feeling that they could be my very own … a young happy family doing what young happy families do … birthday parties and Easter. The kids at Christmas, huddled around the tree on their knees, grinning at boxes with bows, while the adults smiled jovially on the couch.

  Carefully, I stacked the delicate old photos and slid them back inside their envelope and took a deep breath. It was strange seeing Chrissy in her family element; there had been hundreds of photos of her over the years
in the paper and on the internet, but they had been mostly photos of her as a teen and adult. Seeing her real life felt like something different … she looked so young and normal.

  And her family photos brought back an aching want for my own. Mine weren’t lost, merely stored away—there were two plastic tubs filled with my own family’s albums and loose photos in the cellar of the farmhouse. I had looked at them only once since moving back home—but I didn’t look for long, and I hadn’t looked since.

  Did we look as happy as the Cornwalls did in their photos? And most importantly: could you tell a difference between before and after … before the dead girl showed up in our field, and after we found her?

  Dad had grown distant and quieter. Jack immersed himself in his own little world in his room. And Mom… When I closed my eyes, I could still see her, locket swinging around her neck as she chased me through the rows of corn. Hair silver like the moon.

  We were happy once. All of us. But then everything fell apart…

  Dad buried his feelings and Mom ran away with hers … and Jack … well, Jack stayed busy, but perhaps … perhaps it all caught up with him in the end. How much of his suicide is related to the past? Perhaps, like me, he never fully recovered from the tragedy and Mom leaving…

  When I opened my eyes, refocusing on Chrissy’s box, a cold chill ran up my spine. I tucked my hands in my long robe sleeves, using them as gloves to handle the rest of the contents of the box.

  Something more interesting was tucked beneath the photos … three handwritten notes, each meticulously folded in that playful, old-school way that made my heart throb with nostalgia. I used to be able to do it, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember how.

  Slowly, I untucked the corners and carefully unraveled the first one. The letter was written on notebook paper, the scratchy print letters immediately reminding me of a guy’s handwriting, not a girl’s.

  My Dear Sweet Chrissy,

  * * *