She Lied She Died

by Carissa Ann Lynch

  “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.

  Chapter Eight

  But nine o’clock came and went, and Chrissy never showed. It was impossible to hide my disappointment and restlessness as I glanced through the blinds for the hundredth time, still hoping she might turn up.

  I’d expected the media to come again too. But neither Chrissy nor any reporters showed up this morning. Where is everyone?

  Finally, as eleven o’clock approached, I took a shower and choked down a tunafish sandwich before heading in for my shift at Kmart. If Chrissy turned up late while I was at work, so be it. She should have been on time.

  It was a dreary Saturday, the last of the month. Not a sliver of sun in the sky. Bulgy black storm clouds hovered, following me on my twenty-minute drive to work. Reminding me of the demons Alison Alinsky claimed were following her and her son…

  I tried to focus on the monotonous curvy roadways, passing churches and graveyards—it’s all brimstone and death in this town—until I emerged in the center of Austin. But my mind was still on Chrissy. Why didn’t she show like she promised this morning? Did she change her mind? After all of the negative news coverage following her speech yesterday, my own decision had certainly wavered. What if another writer approached her, promising money or offering a more supportive ear?

  But I remembered her words from yesterday: who better than me to tell it?

  Fat pellets of rain showered down on the car as I parked in my usual spot. Kmart was connected to several other small facilities—Dollar Tree, a rent-by-the-month furniture store, and the food stamp office. For a Saturday, the parking lot was mostly deserted, only a few cars parked out front. One of them, a smart red Firebird, belonged to my boss Shane.

  I waited a few minutes, hoping the rain might die down. I didn’t own an umbrella, or a rain jacket for that matter. But when I saw no signs of slowing, I thrust the driver’s side door open and ran across the parking lot, Reeboks squeaking on the grimy pavement.

  When it came to my personality and skills, there were many things lacking. But one thing I did have going for me: I was punctual and I liked to think that my loyalty and responsibility helped make up for my lack of people skills.

  Shane had never called me his favorite, but it was obvious that I was. He always encouraged my fellow co-workers to imitate my work ethic and this fact didn’t score me any friend points at work.

  I shook my long brown hair, goosebumps sprouting as my damp skin came in contact with the air conditioning that always seemed to be running in this
place.

  Maryann and Sharon were working the two registers in the front. I waved at them and smiled, still shaking water from my hair as I walked to the back of the store to punch my time-card.

  Ten years ago, when the farm became mine, I thought this job would be temporary. By now, I should be married with 2.5 kids and a decent job that required a degree … but the mess with Jack had left me frozen in time, a temporary suspension in Austin.

  This might be all there ever is, I thought, looking around at the depressing fluorescent lights and the store’s Halloween display.

  “Natalie, there you are,” Regina said in her sing-songy voice as I scanned my employee badge and waited for the ding to confirm I was punched in correctly and on time.

  I turned around and feigned a smile. “Here I am,” I replied, dully. Regina was kind, but nosey, and she usually only worked a few days a week. I’d heard a rumor that she wanted to go full-time but couldn’t because of my position. She has two kids and really needs the money, Maryann had told me. As though, just because I hadn’t given birth, I didn’t need money to eat and pay bills.

  Regina was sweeping up the break area, guiding a hill of crumbs and dust into her thick gray dust bin.

  “Shane wants to see you. I told him I’d send you in.” She busied herself with the broom and her tiny tower of crumbs.

  “Oh really? Okay, thanks.” I wedged my purse inside my employee locker and made my way down the long black hall that led to the storage bay and my boss’s office.

  His door was open as usual.

  I watched him for a few seconds, head bent low over a stack of invoices, and admired his chiseled jaw and his stylish red hair. I knocked on the door frame.

  “Good morning.”

  “Morning. Come in.” He waved me in with barely a glance up from his papers.

  Shane was younger than any other boss I’d had—barely over thirty. He was handsome. His unruly hair was strangely attractive; his eyes green with little specks of gold in them. He always wore nice fitted shirts, but sometimes, I could see a sliver of a dragon tattoo peeking out from his right bicep.