I considered stopping her. Telling her to just stay … to just give me a minute to process, to think … But then I heard the soft thud of the front door closing.
The taxi money was still on the table.
Chapter Twenty-One
Although my head was spinning, my stomach twisted in knots, I collapsed into my parents’ old bed, tucking the blankets up to my chin. Within seconds, I was sleeping, dreams wild and fitful. Memories unhinged.
As I cracked my eyes open hours later, it all came rushing back. Jack might have been involved in Jenny’s death. There’s something I’m missing here … something we’ve missed all along. As much as I don’t want to believe her, I do. I do believe Chrissy…
Throwing the covers off, I was shocked when I saw the clock. It was after two in the afternoon.
For a brief moment, I couldn’t even remember what day it was. But then the rest of it came flooding back—Chrissy and the letter from Jack…
If what she said was true, then Jack was the last person to see Jenny alive. Did Chrissy do it or did he? Or was there someone else out there that day … John Bishop, perhaps?
In the kitchen, I flipped on the coffee pot and leaned against the counter, staring at the room as though I’d never seen it before.
The shoe box was still on the table. Beside it was Jack’s hand-written letter Chrissy had scrounged up from the cellar.
It was the same bright red Formica table we’d had since I was a child, one of the few remaining pieces from a life long gone. Gone but not completely forgotten.
If I closed my eyes, I could almost see us there—Jack at the end of the table, gangly arms reaching, always reaching, for more food. Mom smiling at the other end, although usually she was on her feet, passing food or refilling cups of milk … reheating my father’s broccoli and meat.
And Dad. He was always quiet and stern at the table, food sectioned off into perfect little portions, never touching. He ate slowly, methodically, and he laughed when we teased him about it.
Me. Old-me. Hair always in braids or a high ponytail, I sat on the opposite side, facing Dad. Close enough to kick my brother under the table, or fling potatoes at him when Mom wasn’t looking.
For so many years, I’d replayed that morning … peeking through my brother’s window, that awful dead girl in the field…
I knew that Jack was gone, visiting with Aunt Lane. But how had I known that?
I’d focused for so long on that one moment, that one day … but what about the night before? Closing my eyes, I tried to rewind the tape … tried to replay the events from before.
I had been with Adrianna until late that night. But why was I with her?
And then it dawned on me: Girl Scouts.
Often times, Adrianna’s mom picked us up from our Girl Scout meetings and dropped me off at home afterwards. Mom was working part-time at the grocery back then, because the farm was losing steam. They tried to hide their money problems from us, but Jack and I always knew. And we heard them fighting, angry words shout-whispered in the dark.
In truth, the only part about her leaving that truly hurt was the fact that she left me when she did. I was fourteen at the time—at an age where I didn’t think I needed anyone, but in truth, I needed my mom more than ever. We grew apart after that, Jack and I, and things with Dad too … I just wanted to get far far away, leave this shithole like Mom did.
But on that particular night, the night before we found Jenny … I squeezed my eyes, straining, willing my brain to cooperate. To remember.
Mom picked me up from Adrianna’s house. It was late. I know it was late because I was falling asleep on the way home.
Was Jack home when I got back?
That I couldn’t remember. As far as I knew, I’d gone straight to bed when I got in.
It was the next morning that I heard the sirens … that I woke up to the terrible sight. The terrible news about a girl I barely knew, Jenny … and Jack wasn’t there. I didn’t see him until days later when he got back from visiting our aunt.
If Dad was gone that night, which he might have been, and Mom was working late … and I was at my Girl Scout meeting and then at my best friend’s house, then it was possible that Jack was alone in the house. That he could have brought Jenny inside. That he could have done it…
No. My brother wouldn’t kill a person.
He had no reason to kill her.
He barely knew Jenny Juliott … but then, I thought about Chrissy, referring to the times she saw Jack at those parties. How did I not know he was hanging around with that crowd? What else did I miss?
My mind flashed back to my brother, lifeless and bleeding on the bedroom floor … there were many things I’d missed, apparently. I didn’t want to believe there was a specific reason he ended his life, but maybe … maybe he felt guilty all along.
I filled my coffee cup to the brim and carried it carefully to the front porch, blowing steam from the top. The autumn air was cool and crisp, chunky gray clouds forming in the east, hovering low beyond the trees.
I took one long, burning sip of my coffee and left it behind on the top porch step.
Hands tucked in my pockets, I crossed the field.
The ground was cold and hard, my tennis shoes squeaky and thin as I made my way through the desolate farmland.
Once upon a time, this farm was thriving. Dad had some cattle. A couple goats and chickens.
He grew oats and corn. Some potatoes and vegetables. Not a lot, but enough. Mom helped too.
It was less of a money-making endeavor, and more of a family tradition. My father’s father had been a farmer in Nebraska. And my mother came from a long line of farmers too. They were perfect for each other, in the beginning.
We like to grow things. Be self-sufficient. Take care of our own, Mom once told me.
On Sundays, she would sell fresh eggs at the farmers’ market, but she barely made enough to cover her stall fees. And as my dad grew older and my brother and I were less interested in helping, everything fell by the wayside … first, he sold the cattle to a larger farm in Illinois. Then the barn grew into disrepair, and when the chickens and goats died, Dad didn’t replace them.
Even the crops eventually withered away, dwindling to dust…
And when my mother left … Dad gave up on the place completely. He maintained the grass, but that was it. Each morning, he slipped on his dumpy orange hat and thick jean coveralls, and he went to work at the cement plant. With Mom gone, he stayed away more and more, as though, at times, he could barely stand the sight of us.
I opened the door of the rickety old barn, a flap of birds sending a tiny electric shock through me, leaving me breathless.
The barn was empty, besides a rack of old, rusty farm tools, stacks of crates for hay, and the ghosts of what might have been.
I hadn’t expected to find Chrissy in here … but I wondered: where did she go when she left last night? She hadn’t taken the money. The two twenties and ones left behind.
The closest hotel wasn’t for miles. I wondered, stiffly, if she went back home to Dennis.
Although the barn looked worn and abandoned, there was gravel covering the old dirt floor. It was growing thin beneath my feet.
It embarrassed me that I wasn’t taking care of the place like I should be. Jack hadn’t made a lot of changes when he’d lived here by himself, but he had added some things … the carpet (that he later destroyed with his own blood) and the gravel outside in the barn. He’d also repainted cabinets and walls … I’d done nothing of the sort since taking over, besides moving out his old stuff and repairing the damage to his room.
Why am I even still here?
As I closed the heavy wood door of the barn behind me, I realized my hands were numb, the soles of my feet pure ice through my thin, insufficient sneakers.
But instead of heading back to the farmhouse, I marched for the trees.
As I crossed the tree line, entering the thin patch of trees between our property and Chri
ssy’s, I turned to get a good look at my view from here.
There, wide and clear … my brother’s window. With binoculars, he would have had a good view of Chrissy if she were standing here.
I tried to imagine Chrissy, young and beautiful, beckoning my brother to the woods … Mom and Dad wouldn’t have liked it. The Cornwalls and the Breyases didn’t talk much, even though they were our closest neighbors.
It had been years since I’d gone through these woods. When I was very little, Mom and Dad let me run and play on the farm and explore the woods with my brother. They warned me to be careful in the creek, but for the most part, they let us run free.
Until Jenny died.
After that, the whole landscape changed—the farm falling into disrepair, my parents keeping a tighter leash on Jack and me. We spent very little time out here after that—our lives mostly changing, as it so often does for teens; our interests centered on our friends and our privacy, tucked away behind closed bedroom doors. Locked up inside trunks.
Hidden in the secrecy of letters…
And for some, like Mom, it was easier to leave it all behind.
Maybe she had the right idea.
The path was overgrown, barely visible now, but my feet knew the way, and as I trudged through the woods, brushing branches and thickets from my hair and arms, I could hear the soft babbling sounds of the creek.
I had expected it to be dried up after all these years. But it was full from the recent rainfall, a strip of muddy current running rapidly downstream.
Trickles of rain pinged down from overhead, colliding with the leaves and the branches of the forest, creating a chilly mist that coated my hair and face.
In the foggy reflection of the stream, I stared at my shapeless face as it waxed and waned, trying to imagine Chrissy, or my brother, spending time down here as kids. How did I not know he was sneaking out?
The creek was fairly shallow, if I remembered correctly, barely to my knees. But it was freezing and there was no way I wanted to wade across it this time of year.
I looked leerily at my destination on the other side.
I could have used the old farm road to reach the entrance of the Cornwalls’ old property, but for some reason this felt right—following the path my brother and Chrissy would have taken during their nighttime rendezvous.
This part of the creek was too wide; I moved east, following the flow of water, until I reached an old overturned tree, bridging a gap between the twenty feet it took to get across.
Even at its narrowest point, my legs were too soft and slow to jump ten feet to the other side.
The log was my best bet now. I stuck out my right foot, tentatively, testing its strength. It was twisted and rotting in places, but it felt solid enough to hold me.
I took a deep breath and stepped on, swinging my left foot around in front of the right. I took three baby steps, then wobbled, raising my hands straight out on either side for balance.
The wood felt decidedly unsteady now, but after several more steps, it was too late to turn back.
In my youth, I probably could have run across it, prancing like a prized gazelle to the other side, no problem…
But now my gait was wobbly and slow, and I felt less sure than before.
I took one more step, then suddenly, my right foot slipped out from under me. I plunged forward, arms flailing desperately … then my chest smacked the log with a painful thud.
“Ugh.” I laid there, belly down on the log, for what felt like several minutes. The fall had knocked the wind out of me, and I struggled to suck in a deep breath of air.
I need to go to the gym, or something. I’m way out of shape these days…
I considered trying to stand back up, using my hands and feet like a primate to get across. But that felt stupid, like some sort of backward evolution, so instead, I scooted across the rest of the way, tearing up my hands and the butt of my pants the whole way to the other side.
I was almost, blissfully, to the very end of it when I could have sworn I heard a tiny whistle of laughter.
“Who’s there?” I squeaked, looking left and right through the trees. I stood up, once again using my arms for balance, and I leapt the final foot to the shore, feet slamming so hard on the ground that my teeth rattled.
This time the laughter was loud and clear, a wild chuckle ricocheting through the trees.
“Hello? Chrissy…?”
A blur of wild black hair swished by in the distance, and then there was someone else there too … a boy. They were running, a young girl and boy, heading straight for the Cornwalls’ old property.
I imagined they were Chrissy and Jack. Secret lovers racing amongst the trees…
But as I followed their path, emerging on the other side, I saw two young teenagers who in no way resembled my brother or Chrissy.
However, I did recognize one of them—that girl again, the one from the other day … Amanda Butler, Adrianna’s daughter.
“You again. Why are you here? This is trespassing, you know.” I glared at them both, huffing, trying to catch my breath, as I stepped out into the Cornwalls’ old yard.
Amanda frowned at me, lifting a lit cigarette to her mouth. She blew out a ring of smoke then said, “This isn’t your property, lady. This here used to belong to the Cornwalls.”
The boy beside her was tall and gangly; he looked two or three years older than her. He had an earing and a strange haircut—long on top but shaved on both sides.
“Yeah, so leave us alone,” he said tactlessly, rolling his eyes at me.
“The Cornwalls don’t live here anymore. That trailer there is abandoned. Probably not even safe,” I said.
Amanda exploded with laughter and her pseudo-edgy comrade laughed too.
“This property belongs to the county now. And kids come here all the time. It’s safe inside and I know that because I’ve been in it a million times,” Amanda said, nastily.
“Yeah, it’s a shit hole but nothing’s wrong with it. We’re just having a little fun, so get the hell out of here,” the young man snapped.
“I’ll do no such thing, young man,” I said, painfully reminding myself of my old-lady status. “What are you doing out here anyway? Shouldn’t you be in school?” I directed my question at Amanda.
Amanda rolled her eyes and took another drag, but I could tell that my comment about school concerned her.
“If you don’t tell me, I’m going to call your mom. I bet she doesn’t know you’re out here.”
I glanced past the kids, taking in my view of the trailer for the first time in years. It was dilapidated, the old white siding rotted, and green streaks of dirt and mildew licking up the sides of it. As my eyes traveled to the front, I spotted crude letters painted on the front door. Someone had graffitied the word TRASH in blocky black paint.
“Did you do that?” I asked, pointing.
“No! It’s been that way for years,” Amanda hissed, defiantly.
“Fuck this. Let’s get out of here before Winslow spots my truck … this bitch isn’t worth our time, Amanda,” the boy said, tugging at her sleeve impatiently.
I refused to look at him, studying the girl. She was trying to look and act older than she was, smoking a cigarette in her torn-up jeans and holey black T-shirt.
I knew her type. Hell, I’d been her type at that age.
Who knows? Maybe I still am.
She wasn’t even wearing a jacket; I fought the urge to ask her if she was cold. Gosh, I really am turning into my mother. Or how a mother should be, I thought, drearily.
“Why aren’t you at school?” I asked again.
Amanda pursed her lips together. “We got out early today. Teacher meetings, or some shit.”
I highly doubted that were true, but I let it slide.
She looks so much like her mother at this age. That hair … those eyes and nose … the attitude.
“Your mom and I used to be friends; did you know that?” I blurted out.
Amand
a stubbed the cigarette out, looking from the boy to me.
“Fine. Whatever,” the boy said. I watched him turn his back on her, then skulk down the dirt road that led away from the front of the Cornwalls’ old property. Moments later, his silhouette evaporated through the foggy mist that surrounded the trees. But I could still hear the heavy tromping of his boots on the ground.
“Yeah, I know,” Amanda said, her response strangely delayed. “I know about you and my mom. She said you all used to be best friends.”
Used to be. Until she turned her back on me when I needed her most.
“Your mom’s parents—your grandma and grandpa, I guess—wouldn’t let her come over to see me anymore. In the beginning, before Chrissy Cornwall confessed, the whole town treated my family like lepers. Like we were the ones who killed her. And even after the confession, the rumors continued for a couple years … my own mom left town because of it. She couldn’t take it anymore. Your mom and I were really close until her parents kept us apart…”
My cheeks flushed red, as I realized I was rambling to a girl who was less than half my age.
She gave me a bewildered look, then lit another cigarette.
“He your ride?” I asked, nodding in the direction her boyfriend went.
“Yeah, but I’m not worried. I’d bet a million bucks he’s still up there waiting for me. Probably spying on us through the trees!” she cupped her hands and shouted. As she turned back around to look at me, she had a big wolfish grin, teeth gleaming, and for a second, she was my best friend reincarnated.
“Why are you out here, Amanda? What are you guys looking for here? Setting up another prank for me, perhaps…”
When she didn’t respond, I went on. “If it’s a place to be alone together, I’m sure there’s more romantic spots than this.” I pointed at the ramshackle trailer.
Amanda snorted. “Pierre’s not my boyfriend. We’re barely even friends, really. We came here to look for the murder weapon. Rumor has it that she buried it here somewhere, or hid it inside the trailer…”
I scoffed at her. “Even if that were true, why do you care? Chrissy was already tried and convicted. She’s served out her time…”
She Lied She Died Page 12