She Lied She Died

by Carissa Ann Lynch

  “When you said your father looked into my family, did he ever suspect my brother?” I asked, trying to be nonchalant.

  “I don’t think so. Your brother was staying with a family member.”

  I nodded, solemnly. “He was. He left for my aunt’s house the night before she was found … But the thing is—if you remove Chrissy’s confession, all you have is circumstantial evidence. Don’t you agree?” I asked.

  Nash made a sound, something caught between a laugh and a groan. “But that’s just it, Natalie. She did confess. There’s no mystery here. Just a sad old woman … trying to redeem herself.”

  “I don’t know, Nash. There’s something not right about all this.”

  “Those muddy shoes and the matching print in the field were pretty damning too. You can’t forget about those,” Nash reminded me.

  His words hit home. Even if Chrissy’s alternative story made sense of the shoes, the most obvious conclusion still implicated her guilt…

  Trying to change the past at this point was fruitless.

  Am I willing to write a version of the story that I can’t prove, one way or the other? No, I decided. No, I’m not.

  But Chrissy’s confession tucked in the back of the file … a child’s messy writing … even her confession struck me as odd.

  I killed Jenny because I was jealous of her and John. I stabbed her with a kitchen knife and burned her. I threw the knife in the creek.

  It was too neat; too easy. It made no mention of the strangulation or how the burns on her hands and face were inflicted.

  And that knife was never recovered.

  Thinking about that confession, it almost read as someone who felt forced to write it. Like she was hiding something, another piece of the story…and she was trying to be as vague as possible to implicate herself and get it over with it.

  That would make sense if she was protecting someone else.

  I stood up from the table, feeling restless. I wanted him to leave; wanted to climb in bed and sleep until my head stopped spinning with the lies, trying to make them truth…

  “You’re right. She confessed, ultimately sealing her fate. Thanks again for lending me the file,” I said.

  “Any time.”

  As I saw him out, he tipped his hat at me like an old-fashioned gentleman. He was handsome, even more so than his late father. If I weren’t so caught up in this mess with Chrissy, so distracted by my own thoughts, perhaps I would have worked up the nerve to ask him out some time…

  He was just about to get in the cruiser when he remembered something and stopped. For a brief second, I almost hoped he might ask me out.

  “Uh … I don’t think you’re going to have to worry about Chrissy much longer. She’s leaving town. I saw her a couple hours ago. Folks are pissed because she’s staying at Rooster’s, so I made a quick stop over there today.”

  So, that’s where she went.

  Rooster’s was the shittiest hole-in-the-wall motel in three counties. It was rent-by-the-day or by-the-week. And if the guests there were disturbed by her, that was pretty sad because it was mostly frequented by dealers and prostitutes.

  “She said she’s leaving in the morning. Bought a ticket for a Greyhound bus. I think she said it was headed to Wyoming. Or maybe it was West Virginia…”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  When I hear the word “seedy”, I think about Rooster’s.

  I’d never stayed or hung around there, not in all the years I’d lived in Austin. It was mostly drifters and people passing through who didn’t know any better. And then the dealers and hookers of course.

  It was a long, one-story building, each tiny room connected to the next. The roof was caving in, the old red brick chipped and fading. A sad little place, I thought.

  But for such a sad place, it was popping on a Friday night. As I pulled in, there were people standing in the old dirt lot, people sprawled on lawn chairs and huddled around in groups, talking excitedly.

  As I parked and got out, the energy in the air was palpable. Something is wrong.

  “What is it?” I asked a heavyset woman in a bright red sweatshirt. She was smoking and watching, standing apart from the crowd of people.

  Like a beehive, they were buzzing with excitement. But I saw no signs of Chrissy.

  “That woman who killed that little girl’s in there…” She pointed toward room 19. The door was ajar. I could see the flicker of a television; there was a strange staticky sound coming from inside.

  That “woman” was a girl when she killed her and she might not even be guilty, I wanted to say. But I didn’t dare correct the woman; I was just grateful she hadn’t recognized me yet from the news.

  “Are you talking about Chrissy Cornwall?” I asked her.

  “Yup. That’s her. Crazy, right?” She took a long drag from her cigarette.

  And that’s when I heard it … sirens in the distance. A sound that, even now, thirty years later, still gave me chills.

  “Ambulance is coming! Let’s hope they don’t make it in time,” someone chuckled from among the crowd. The woman beside me laughed.

  “If I find out who called them, I’m whooping your ass!” another man in the crowd shouted.

  “Why’s there an ambulance? What’s going on?” A trickle of fear ran through me. I looked at the woman and she looked back at me. She was smiling.

  “Bitch tried to off herself, can you believe that? Took a bunch of pills, apparently. Somebody called for help, although I don’t know why. Think they should just let her die in there … slow and miserable and alone like that poor girl did…”

  But I was no longer listening. I ran for the door, shoving my way through the crowd of angry gawkers. As I pushed my way through the motel door, I could see her.

  Flat on her back in the bed, Chrissy was choking, an eerie rattle erupting from her mouth … for a split second, her frantic eyes popped open and seemed to register mine.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Don’t freeze. Don’t freeze. This time you CANNOT FREEZE.

  I ran to her bedside, calling her name. She was convulsing and gurgling, which was terrifying … but at least she’s breathing!

  Sirens blared in the distance … please hurry. Please hurry!

  I placed my fingers on her chin and tilted her head back, listening. Her breathing was very shallow, but still there, her eyes drifting shut on me.

  This isn’t like Jack. She’s not gone yet. I can still save her…

  “Stay with me, Chrissy!” I gave her a couple sturdy shakes, but when that didn’t work, I tilted back her head again and gave two rescue breaths. Next, I moved to chest compressions, counting aloud as I went.

  I could hear the buzz of people all around me, talking and laughing. Like the death of this woman was some sort of celebration.

  I hated them for it.

  I hated Chrissy for doing this … to me, to herself. Just like Jack did.

  And I hated myself for sending her away … for abandoning her when she needed me.

  I continued the cycle: breathing, compressing, then listening for what felt like hours, my lips and arms growing heavy and numb…

  When the paramedics arrived, I didn’t even hear them coming. Someone had to shove me aside to get to her.

  “Good job. She’s still alive,” one paramedic said.

  I stood out of the way, the room spinning as I watched them take over. Moments later, I heard the most beautiful words, “Her pulse is thready, but it’s there. I think she’ll be okay. We need to transport her now though.”

  I watched them load her into the ambulance, barely breathing myself.

  The people in the crowd were following … chasing behind the ambulance, shouting obscenities or laughing.

  I turned and looked at the room, really seeing it for the first time. What did Chrissy take?

  There was nothing in the room to make it obvious, but I found her backpack under the bed. I snatched it up and looked inside.

  An empty p
ill bottle of Oxycodone, the patient’s name blacked out with marker. Probably bought from one of the dealers at the motel.

  It was easy to get drugs in these parts; easier than getting a job or affordable insurance, truly.

  I clutched the empty vial in my hand, realizing that I needed to let the hospital know exactly what she’d overdosed on. As I tossed it back in the bag, between a tangle of clothes and toiletries, I spotted something else inside. A tiny piece of folded paper. A note written on one of the complimentary notepads the motel gave you.

  The letter was addressed to me.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Natalie,

  * * *

  Is it better to administer the truth in small doses, or inject it all at once? I used to think I knew the answer, but I know nothing anymore.

  * * *

  I tried to tell a pretty lie. I told Jenny that her boyfriend was pursuing me and that we had slept together. I thought that would be enough. Sadly, I thought if she believed he was a cheater that would deter her even more than the truth. We women are strange … jealousy overrules fear most of the time.

  * * *

  Because I didn’t “sleep” with John at that party. The sex wasn’t consensual, do you understand? Her boyfriend was a rapey piece of shit. And when she got back with him, even after the cheating, I knew I had no choice but to share the ugly truth.

  * * *

  That’s why we were fighting in the parking lot. She didn’t want to hear what I had to say. She wasn’t ready for the truth. But finally, I convinced her. I told her about the rape. I told her that I was going to the police the next morning. John Bishop was a rapist who had to pay. I couldn’t let him do it to her, or some other poor, unsuspecting girl.

  * * *

  She was calm when I told her, understanding, but then she showed up over at Jack’s (your house). For so many years, I thought she went there for revenge. I was right—but it was a different sort of justice she had in mind. She didn’t want to steal the boy I loved; she wanted to destroy him. Just like she thought I was going to destroy John when I turned him in for what he did to me.

  * * *

  I think she accused your brother of rape. And maybe that’s why he killed her … because I didn’t, Natalie. I have nothing to lose, no reason to lie anymore. I did not hurt Jenny.

  * * *

  Jack never said he killed her, but I know he was hiding something. He said the proof was in the trunk. But I couldn’t find any trunks when I stayed at your house and I was scared to tell you … maybe the trunk of his old car? I don’t know and I don’t think I even want to know anymore.

  * * *

  I’d rather leave this world, letting them think I did it. Let your brother rest in peace. He was a good man; I promise he was.

  * * *

  I want to be with Jack now. Do you think I’ll see him where I’m going? Please pray that I do.

  * * *

  Love,

  * * *

  Chrissy

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  As I drove home, my body shook—fear, cold, exhaustion, adrenaline … I couldn’t be certain which. Why would Chrissy do this? My thoughts jettisoned from guilty to angry to guilty again…

  The proof is in the trunk.

  Chrissy suggested a car trunk, but that wasn’t it. My brother drove a truck before his suicide, and I’d sold it a few months after returning to the farm.

  The windows of my car were all the way down, air pushing against me. The wind knocking me dangerously side to side on the road, like some unseeable force trying to stop me—trying to prevent the inevitable…

  The proof is in the trunk.

  Moments later, I was home, running through the drenching rains to get inside.

  First, I dialed the hospital, breathily explaining the bottle I’d found in Chrissy’s bag. Not the letter. I told no one about the letter I found.

  “Can I come to the hospital and see her? Is she going to make it?” I braced myself for the emergency room operator’s answer. She sounded distant and busy, the squeaky sounds of a busy ER in the background.

  “Only when, and if, she becomes stable, she can have visitors. But family only,” she told me.

  Family only.

  But Chrissy had no family. And for the most part, neither did I.

  “But will she be okay? Can you tell me that?”

  The woman groaned on the other end. “I can’t give out medical info, dear, okay? But … she’s stable. Your friend is stable for now.”

  “Thank you,” I breathed, hanging up the phone with a relieved whoosh.

  Chrissy might have been ready to leave this town, this earth … but Austin and the powers of the universe weren’t ready to let her go. Not yet at least.

  Her suicide letter shook in my hand as I paced back and forth in the living room. I couldn’t stop thinking about the Cornwalls’ trailer, empty and desolate. No traces of the past left behind.

  That wasn’t the case with my family’s farm. Evidence of our past was still here, right here, hiding in plain sight. Pictures and letters … boxes of stuff downstairs. But the real question was: where is Jack’s trunk?

  Because the moment I read the letter, I knew which trunk Chrissy meant. Not the trunk of a car, but his prized trunk—the place where he’d kept parts of himself hidden away as a boy.

  Is that where he hid the murder weapon?

  But I haven’t seen that old trunk in years!

  It had been years since I’d even thought about the trunk; it hadn’t been here when I moved in, which didn’t seem strange. Over the years, we’d all gotten rid of past toys and possessions … not seeing it never struck me as odd, and frankly, I hadn’t even realized it was gone.

  I had no idea where to look for it. Could there be another trunk he was referring to when he said that to Chrissy…?

  As much as Chrissy wanted to leave this world, with all of its “pretty lies” about murder, I had to know the ugly truth. If my brother did it, if he killed Jenny Juliott … then I wanted to know.

  I need to know what he was hiding.

  I searched every closet upstairs first, although I’d been through all that before. There was very little, if nothing, left behind of them anymore. I’d stored it all in the basement.

  For the next several hours, I sifted through box after box downstairs. Tub after dusty tub, cobwebs clinging to my face and hands…

  There were letters and pictures … family vacations and school pictures. A time when we were happy and normal, such a long time ago…

  I searched for hidden alcoves or loose floorboards, which seemed like something my brother would do. He loved adventure and mystery, always sending me on wild goose chases as a kid. Memories of him danced around my head, making me sick with grief. His treasure maps—X marks the spot. His made-up plays and games. Catch the pirate and tie him to a tree. Avoid the lava in the grass. Find the treasure and save the girl.

  He always had the best hiding spots as a kid…

  So many hours spent living in worlds that weren’t real … where did that brother go? The one that was fun and playful. The one who didn’t keep secrets like this … I wondered.

  My thoughts circled back to the Cornwalls’ property. It was conveniently close; an easy place to hide something. But the trailer was empty, abandoned … but, perhaps, it was worth taking another look…

  The house shook with thunder, lights flickering in and out, as I moved from room to room. What am I missing, Jack? Where could you have hidden such a large trunk?

  When I had moved in, there was no evidence of digging or freshly loose soil. But, then again, who knew how long it had been since he’d hidden his secret?… If it’s outside, I’ll never find it.

  But, impulsively, I stepped out on the front porch, catching my breath. I was sweating, my thoughts spinning wildly out of control.

  Will Chrissy live? Did my brother kill Jenny? And where is that fucking trunk?

  I considered the possibility that
my brother had the trunk stored somewhere else, like a storage unit.

  But, by now, the rent on a unit would have expired. I would have known if he had something like that, right?

  If I wanted to hide something heavy and large like a trunk, where would I put it?

  Lightning cracked the sky, and, in the distance, the barn lit up like a ghostly black shadow in the flash.

  I thought about the loft in the top of the barn. The place where we hid so many times as children.

  Determined, I took off across the field, certain the barn was where I’d find the truth.

  Chapter Thirty

  As I climbed the old ladder to the hay loft, I was certain this was the place. It was large enough to hold a trunk, and several more items if Jack had wanted to store them here.

  But as I stood at the top of the ladder, wobbling dangerously, I was disappointed to see nothing but old bits of hay and fodder for the animals that used to live on the farm.

  My heart fell.

  There’s no path to the truth anymore.

  Carefully, I descended the ladder, trying to fight off feelings of vertigo. Three steps down, I noticed something below on the floor of the barn. Bales of hay that looked perfectly normal, but there was something strange about them too. As I stared at them from the top of the ladder, I noticed something odd.

  They were arranged in the pattern of an X.

  My breath froze in my chest. Oh, Jack…

  X marks the spot.