She Lied She Died by Carissa Lynch (books to read for teens TXT) 📗

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