She Lied She Died

by Carissa Ann Lynch

  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 th
e 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 w
hat 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.