She Lied She Died Read online

  I closed my eyes and sighed deeply. I’d given up on social media years ago and I had no plan to get on there now, especially not with the recent news and … now this.

  “Why is everyone so angry with me? And why not go throw eggs at Chrissy’s trailer or something? Why come here?” I wondered aloud.

  “Because this is where it happened. This is the scary place.” Nash did air quotes as he said “scary place”.

  “My family had nothing to do with Jenny’s death,” I said, bitterly.

  “I know that. And my dad knew that too when he was alive. I was only five when it all happened, but I learned about it later… he talked about that case until his dying day.”

  That surprised me. “He did?”

  Nash nodded.

  “You know she’s saying she’s innocent,” I said, quietly.

  Nash abruptly chuckled into his cup. “And you know that’s bull, right?”

  I shrugged. “I mean, I don’t believe everything she tells me, if that’s what you’re saying… but it’s worth a listen, don’t you think?”

  I didn’t tell him the truth—that I suspected there was something more, something his dad might have missed.

  Nash’s face hardened. “I don’t think she deserves any sort of audience, to be honest with you. I mean, come on, why did she come back here? What was her reasoning? Have you bothered asking her that?”

  My face warmed. “I have but I can’t discuss our interviews right now. We’ve only met twice, so we’re just getting started.”

  “You should talk to Katie,” Nash said.

  “Katie?” But I already knew who he meant. Katrina Juliott, Jenny’s mother.

  “She still live around here?” I asked, hesitantly. I thought about her son, Jenny’s brother Mike, that I’d seen at the vigil the other night.

  When Nash nodded, I asked, “Why in the world would Katie Juliott talk to me?”

  Nash set his cup down slowly and ran his fingers through his shaggy hair. “Because, like you, she always wanted more. She had doubts about Chrissy’s guilt, too.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  There is more than one way to kill a person. Not all of those ways involve death.

  Katie Juliott wasn’t dead and buried like her daughter Jenny. Nevertheless, she was still gone. The lights are on but no one’s home.

  There was something vacant in the old woman’s eyes as she led me inside her house. She didn’t act surprised when I showed up on her doorstep. She didn’t ask who I was.

  I hadn’t seen her in years and years… how could she possibly know who I am?

  She was wispy and thin. The full rosy cheeks I remembered from my childhood, that aristocratic nose and the way she held herself—always primly dressed and quiet—were gone.

  Now Jenny’s mom was skin and bones, her eyes vacant. Lost.

  But there was beauty in the way she moved … as though beauty and tragedy were intertwined, one impossible without the other…

  “I was just cooking supper. Here’s your plate, dear.”

  I was sitting on a bar stool at the breakfast counter, watching Jenny’s frail mother move around the kitchen noiselessly, ghostlike.

  Supper? It’s barely noon.

  And she still hadn’t asked me what I was doing here… Maybe she thinks I’m someone else. Maybe she doesn’t know I’m interviewing her daughter’s supposed murderer for a story.

  “Thank you,” I said, as Katie slid a ceramic plate filled with food in front of me. The scent of tomato and cheese filled the room and my belly grumbled. There was a large square of lasagna on one side and a pile of chips and salsa on the other. A weird combination, but I didn’t want to be rude, and truthfully, it all smelled delightful.

  I plucked up a chip and dipped it in the thick red salsa.

  “I made those chips myself,” Katie said, proudly. She smiled for the first time, her face coming alive with it.

  The chip was deliciously crisp and the salsa oddly sweet and savory. I closed my eyes, relishing the bite. I hadn’t realized until this very moment… I’d been running on coffee and adrenaline for days.

  Katie was still watching me, so I scooped up a hearty bite of lasagna. Unlike the salsa, the lasagna wasn’t quite right—the noodles felt too hard, the meat slightly… raw.

  As Katie turned toward the stove, I spit the hunk of beef in my hand—it was cold and pink—and I slid it under a slippery noodle to hide it.

  Is she trying to poison me?

  But I knew that was a ridiculous thought. Nash had warned me, when I told him I might visit as suggested, that Katie had Alzheimer’s and her lucidity came and went.

  “Mrs. Juliott, I came to ask you a few questions about Jenny. Would that be all right?”

  She was standing at the stove top, back turned to me, slowly scrubbing one of the burners with a rag. She stopped and turned, her eyes focusing in on mine for the first time since my arrival.

  “You’re going to write it, aren’t you?”

  The directness of her stare and question sent a nervous wave of nausea through my stomach.

  “I’m not sure yet. I’m just hearing what she has to say. I don’t see any reason to repeat what’s already been said over the years. And I don’t intend to cause any pain or discomfort for—”

  Katie lifted one hand to stop me.

  She walked over and looked at the plate in front of me, brow furrowing, then whisked it away before I could reach for another bite.

  “Thank you for the food. It was delicious. I’m just not very hungry…” My belly rumbled noisily, betraying me.

  Katie dropped the plate in the sink, food and all. I flinched at the ear-splitting clank.

  “I have early-onset Alzheimer’s. I almost wish I didn’t have these moments … these moments when I realize what’s happening.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I mumbled, because I didn’t know what else to say. She had to be … I tried to do the math quickly. Katie was older than my mother back then … so, she had to be around seventy now.

  Her withdrawn face and fragile frame made her look older than seventy though.

  “Wait right here. I want to show you something while my head is on straight.”

  As Katie wandered out of the room, I looked around the kitchen for any signs of Jenny. This was the house she grew up in, in a neighborhood much different than mine. The houses here were old but mid-sized with small backyards, your quintessential middle-class family.

  As Katie returned, I rose to help her—she was carrying two heavy books that appeared to be photo albums. My heart fell at the sight of them.

  I wasn’t opposed to looking at photos of Jenny, but I’d seen a lot of her school pics online, and what I really wanted to discuss was Chrissy.

  “Over here,” Katie motioned, leading me to a large dining area adjacent to the kitchen.

  The table was massive, enough to seat eight people. My thoughts fluttered back to Jenny’s brother. Does he still live here? And if so, how would he feel about me coming over, asking his sick mother questions? I cringed at the thought, hoping Mike didn’t show.

  I took a seat beside Katie and watched her bird-like hands as they lifted the leather cover. The first photo was of Jenny. She was young, probably five or six in the photo. This wasn’t one I’d seen before.

  She was wearing a frilly white dress that summer, her stubby legs and feet ridiculously cute in her mother’s heels. And to top it all off, there was a cowboy hat on her head, the bill so big it was hiding most of her eyes and nose. She looked so normal … so happy.

  Katie reached over to turn the page, and the next thing I knew I was getting flooded by a barrage of pictures—Jenny in a tiger swimsuit on the beach, tummy round and cheeks warm from the sun. Jenny with a fishing pole, standing next to an older boy with long, tan legs and matching hair. Jenny cradled in her mother’s arms, chubby and soft as goo on the day she was born…

  Seeing her this way filled me with an odd sensation. A realization. Jenny Juliot
t wasn’t “the dead girl” or a case to be remembered … she was a real girl. Someone’s sister. Someone’s daughter.

  For the first time, I wondered—really wondered: what did it feel like when it happened? Did she feel the life being sucked out of her second by second…? Did she see it coming? Did she know who her killer was? Was she staring in her killer’s eyes before they fluttered shut for all time? And most importantly: was it Chrissy’s eyes she saw that day when she took her final breath?

  Mostly I wondered: Was she scared when she died?

  “I told her not to trust that girl,” Katie said.

  “Excuse me?”

  Her finger shook as she stopped on a picture and pointed at one of two girls.

  Jenny as a young child, hair wispy and white. Her smile wide, but full of missing teeth. And beside her … those dark, mischievous eyes, that haunting smile … Chrissy.

  “I’m surprised they took a picture together. I didn’t think they were really friends…” I said, shakily.

  Katie surprised me by slamming the book shut and scooting it across the table. She reached over, grasping my hand … her grip tighter than I would have imagined … almost too tight.

  “I told you that girl was trouble,” she said.

  I blinked, staring back at this woman who, once again, looked vacant and lonely inside.

  “Who?” I asked, playing along.

  “Chrissy, that’s who. You should have taken John’s word over hers. Those Cornwalls are nothing but liars and trash.”

  She thinks I’m Jenny.

  Thoughts circled back to those letters in the shoe box—John, pursuing Chrissy. Jenny thanking her for telling the truth.

  I’d heard many theories over the years, mostly on conspiracy threads on Reddit and overzealous crime bloggers … but I’d never heard that Chrissy and Jenny were friends. In every theory, regardless of whodunnit, it was clear that Chrissy and Jenny were fighting over a boy.

  “Why do you trust John so much?” I asked, tentatively.

  John Bishop, no longer a boy. He was fat and balding, living two towns over with a wife and three kids. If only Chrissy and Jenny knew what a prize he’d really turn out to be…

  It seemed wrong, pressing answers from a woman who might not give them to me willingly if she wasn’t sick.

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Katie huffed. “He adores you, honey. He always has. Now that other boy, I don’t trust him…”

  “What other boy?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me, girl. I’ve seen the way your face lights up at the mention of his bloody name.”

  Who in the hell could she be talking about?

  “I don’t know who you mean,” I said, honestly.

  “Jack Breyas, of course. That boy and his family … they’re good enough, but they don’t go to church. He’s not good enough for you either.”

  I gasped at the sound of my brother’s name. What did he have to do with Jenny? They were never an item, were they? He barely reacted at the news of her death … in fact, he was visiting Aunt Lane when it happened … he didn’t even attend Jenny’s funeral…

  Suddenly, the walls felt too narrowing, too tight. My breath lodged in my throat, I choked out the words, “I have to go, Mrs. Juliott. Thanks for the lovely meal.”

  She raised her eyebrows at me, then surprised me by saying, “Okay, let me walk you out.”

  At the door, she placed her hand on my arm. I was so shaken, it made me freeze in place.

  “Do you feel her there … her presence still around on the farm?”

  Does she remember who I am again now? I wondered, exasperated.

  “Who do you mean?” I stammered.

  “My Jenny. Is she still there? Do you feel her with you sometimes?”

  Her words, spoken so softly and with such hopefulness, sent a wave of sadness through me.

  “Not really. But I think that’s because she didn’t die there, Mrs. Juliott. Her body was there, yes, but I don’t think it was where she was murdered…”

  The look on Katie’s face was devastating.

  Quickly, I added, “But I think about her all the time, so maybe she is there. I don’t know.”

  “And your brother? Do you feel him too?”

  I shuddered and shook my head, letting myself out without another word.

  Did Jack know more about Jenny’s death than he’d let on? And is that why he eventually committed suicide all those years ago?

  Chapter Fourteen

  I found him on a Friday night. It was ten years ago but, in truth, it feels like only yesterday.

  The radio was on in the kitchen, one of those old-timey things attached below the cabinets. It was playing at full volume, just like old times when Mom was still there. She loved to read or listen to music while she cooked our supper, sometimes both.

  I smiled when I walked in, a pleasant sense of being home settling over me for the first time in years.

  The kitchen was empty, and yet … I could still see her standing there. In her summer tank tops and old blue jeans; she never wore shorts, not even in the dog days of summer.

  I missed her smile and I missed her food. I missed hearing the music of my childhood … a summer soundtrack I’d never forget … the flipping pages of her books and the low hum of her off-key voice as she sang along to all the songs she knew…

  For a while, she seemed so happy. But then after Jenny died, her relationship with Dad unraveled … and suddenly, she no longer wanted to stay. There were rumors—drugs, another man, a mental breakdown—but I think she just got sick of being our mother, frankly.

  “Jack! Where you at?” I called.

  I followed the sounds of something else, leaving the music behind … it was the swishing of the fan upstairs. Just like it always had, the fan still rocked and swayed when turned on full speed, threatening to rip itself from the ceiling…

  I climbed the steps, two at a time. Eager to see my brother.

  He’d asked me to come a dozen times—first, to live with him, and when that didn’t work, he asked me constantly to come visit. My decision to come was spur of the moment … I was hoping to surprise him and seeing his truck out front had made me smile.

  I just hope he doesn’t have a girl up there, I thought, grimly.

  “Jack?”

  As I reached the top of the stairs, I could see that he was in his room. The light was on and his door was open. Despite taking over the farm after Daddy’s heart attack, he hadn’t switched his room to the master. It seemed childish—staying in his old room all this time.

  I stepped into the doorway, smiling big … all my molars showing. But my temporary glee melted instantly.

  Because this wasn’t how I expected to find him.

  ‘Sweet and Low’ by Augustana was playing on the radio downstairs. I’ll never forget that song. Dad’s old shotgun lay next to him on the floor.

  I fell to the floor beside him, trying to resuscitate him … although I knew. I knew he was gone long before I’d arrived.

  Because at the top of his head, that messy tuft of hair I used to tug on, was a hole so big that I could have fit my fist inside it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  As I slammed the door of the car and wedged the shifter in gear, I couldn’t get my mind off Jack. Off that night, ten years ago … when all my future plans changed. When I lost the only family I had left. And the way he did it … that jagged red hole at the top of his skull, bits of bone and brain matter splattered on the carpet and walls…

  I thought about my “office” now, the slick gray coat of paint, the furniture replaced, the carpet removed and restored to its original pine heart flooring … but it was still Jack’s room. It would always be his room. The room he laid his head in for all those years; and the room where he blew it apart.

  He left no note. No explanation. Not even a clue on his mobile or email accounts.

  Why didn’t he call me? Why didn’t he reach out for help?

  But that nasty, unfor
giving voice inside me reminded me as it always did: maybe he wouldn’t have done it if you’d hadn’t moved away. Or if you’d gone to visit more often…

  Jack had struggled with depression. That was no secret. But I had depression, too. When does the line between depression cross into complete desperation, with no will to live?

  But then that voice again: Don’t pretend you haven’t considered it either.

  After he died, I thought I wouldn’t be able to stay. The farm was mine, after all. Mom out there living her new life and Dad dead and buried in the ground. There was no one left to take it but me after Jack died.

  But instead of being unable to stay, I found that I could not leave.

  I felt, somehow, that I owed it to Jack to be there.

  Did you know something about Jenny’s death? Is that why you did it? Or was it just too depressing to be in that house, after losing Dad and Mom leaving, and the tragedy that occurred there, Jack…?

  Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a chance to ask him all those questions now.

  I’d gotten rid of Dad’s guns and had the room cleaned and redone. I’d tried to whisk away the bad memories of his suicide and hold onto the ones before … the ones of us as children. We were close, almost too close, in that way some siblings are. We could get along better than anyone, but at the same time … we could go from zero to sixty and be at each other’s throats for the dumbest things.

  Oh, how I wish I could change it, Jack.

  All the games—the hide and seek, the make-believe worlds we’d created, the treasures we’d looked for—those were the good times. The times I want to hold on to. But, in my mind, I still saw what he looked like there on the floor … I could never forget that version of him. The broken brother I couldn’t save.

  I couldn’t face the bustle of in-town traffic, or the prospect of driving by Kmart. But I couldn’t go home either … I wasn’t ready to return to my empty tomb just yet.

  Residential homes faded away, the familiar fields returning and blurring by in my periphery. Trees, so many trees … there were so many places the killer could have dumped Jenny’s body. Why the farm? And why did Katie Juliott mention my brother? Was she simply confused…? Mixing up my brother with John Bishop?