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

Shakily, I moved my king, letting her castle take me.

“My parents found her. I saw her body from my brother’s window,” I said.

“And in the days that followed, there were all sorts of crazy theories… Do you remember that part too?” Chrissy asked.

I nodded.

But, truly, I didn’t. I was young then. I knew my parents were shook up and the kids at school were talking … but I didn’t really understand most of it until I was older.

“Someone at the school saw her with me that day, whipping out of the school parking lot. I didn’t force her in the truck. Jenny wasn’t scared of me! Did you read the letter she wrote me?”

I nodded. “I did. The letter with the initials ‘JJ’.”

Chrissy lifted her glass to her lips, sniffed at the empty tumbler then set it back down. She stared at the board, admiring her win.

“How did she end up in the field after you dropped her at the park, Chrissy?”

Chrissy shrugged. “She walked there, I guess. But someone stopped her. Someone…”

“Who?” I pressed. “Who were you protecting?”

“I’ve had too much to drink,” Chrissy said, abruptly. She pushed back her chair and stood up, stumbling forward into the table. Chess pieces fell over, a couple hitting the soft carpet below.

“Can I stay here tonight? I know it’s rude to ask, but I’ve had too much to drink and I’m not supposed to be drinking … plus, I can’t go home to that … well, it’s not even really my home. I don’t have a fucking home anymore,” she said, bitterly.

As much as I wanted to know the truth, she was too drunk to push right now.

“Okay, Chrissy. It’s okay. You can sleep in my old room.” I took her by the elbow, leading her toward the stairs.

Chrissy was clumsy, leaning hard into my shoulder, as we made our way up the stairs.

“If you want me to write this story, Chrissy, then I need to know who you were protecting. Who you’re still protecting,” I said, leading her to the door. “You can trust me. I’m on your side here.”

“She was out there in the field, bugs crawling over her skin … worms eating her eyes. I can’t stop thinking about it. How scared she must have been … how awful I was for not protecting her,” she slurred.

Chrissy was choking up with tears now. I pushed her the rest of the way up the steps, keeping her steady as she took one step after another toward my childhood bedroom. My old bed was still in there, with the gold frame and itchy blue blankets.

She stumbled through the doorway and plopped face first on my bed, groaning.

“I don’t feel good,” she mumbled into the pillows, closing her eyes.

She still had her shoes on; the bed still neatly made beneath her body.

“Who were you protecting, Chrissy?” I asked again, softly in the dark.

But she was out like a light and I felt myself sigh in frustration. Gently, I rolled her into the recovery position, just in case. Then I closed the door, giving her privacy.

Chapter Seventeen

I closed the door to my bedroom, balancing a slice of cold pizza as I made my way for the bed. The files of the late Burt Winslow were stuffed between my mattress and box spring, beckoning me to read them.

Nibbling the pizza, I opened the worn-out folder; it was thick, nearly fifty sheets to go through, and I had no idea how long I’d have them. For all I knew, Nash might show up in the morning and whisk them away.

My mind circled back to Chrissy’s last words.

Who was she protecting?

John Bishop? Her brothers? Or perhaps her father…

I tried to consider my own family: would I go down for a crime to protect them? I no longer had a family to protect; those who were living, out there somewhere, my mom and Aunt Lane, didn’t matter. They don’t keep in touch, so why should I?

If I knew Jack killed someone, would I take the fall?

I suppose it would depend on the circumstances…

Why is Chrissy being so vague? Why doesn’t she come right out and say it? And if someone else really was involved in Jenny’s death, what will the repercussions be for telling this story?

I thought about her chess strategy … slow and methodical, a sneak attack from all sides…

Setting aside thoughts of our conversation, I removed the first ten pages from the file and spread them across my bed like a fan.

Nash’s father may have been gone from this earth, but his stern voice spoke to me from the pages…

The probable cause affidavit, charging Chrissy with first-degree murder was page number one. A small trophy for him.

The report was mechanical and matter-of-fact, the justification for arresting Chrissy on July 15, 1981.

The most damning piece of evidence was her written confession. I pulled the rest of the sheets from the files, locating a copy of it—Chrissy’s messy, childlike writing. I set it aside to read later.

There was more listed in the affidavit … a muddy shoe print in the field, with a distinct converse emblem imprinted into the bottom. And then the straw that broke the camel’s back: a pair of matching, filthy shoes photographed inside Chrissy’s trailer. Specifically, in Chrissy’s bedroom closet.

I flipped through the dusty old pages, looking for an image of the shoe print and the matching pair photographed at Chrissy’s. I stopped, scalp prickling with fear, as I reached the glossy crime scene photos.

How many times have I seen her face … eye bulging, her cheeks and lips bloated…?

But here they were, in full color, triggering a wave of memory and fear. My stomached twisted in knots, I fought the urge to vomit as I had all those years ago…

There were five photos in all. I pushed aside the other papers, lining up the photos in front of me. I forced myself to stare at her face, to study the wounds on her body.

The person