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

The last time I saw her was at Jack’s funeral.

She and a few distant relatives on the Breyas side had been the only family members in attendance. The rest of us are gone. Or hiding, as is the case with my mother, I thought bitterly.

Lane’s house on Stony Brook Boulevard looked smaller than I remembered. It was old, built in the ’70s, but it had been well maintained over the years. The shutters were painted a shiny sky blue, the siding appeared recently pressure-washed. And someone was obviously doing her lawncare. The shrubs that lined the pathway to her front door were perfectly sculpted into neat, pointy diamond shapes.

There was something soothing about being here though—Lane was the only real connection I had to my family anymore, even if we weren’t that close. I knocked on her door, waiting breathlessly.

I didn’t expect her to be so fast, but the door popped right open, Lane’s big smile and shiny bright teeth welcomed me.

“Sorry I didn’t call. I was in the neighborhood,” I lied.

“Oh, honey. Come in! Come in! You don’t need an excuse to visit me, silly child,” she cooed.

As she let me in, she squeezed both of my shoulders, looking me over. “You look dead dog tired,” she concluded, sizing me up.

“I am tired, Lane,” I admitted, drily.

The sunken family room brought back a thousand memories. I’d only been here a few times as a child, but the memories had left their mark. There were still three bear cubs in the corner of the room, their painted faces vicious and strange. The fireplace mantel still lined with tiny knick-knacks—a black and white glass yorkie, a petal pink rose made out of plastic masquerading as metal … and I could remember her never allowing me to touch anything.

“This place hasn’t changed a bit,” I said, smiling half-heartedly.

“Right. It hasn’t but I have. I guess that’s how it goes, right?”

I wasn’t sure what she meant exactly, but I nodded, letting her lead me into her large dining space. The long pine table I remembered had been replaced with a smaller glass round one.

“Take a seat. I’ll fetch you something to drink. But mind your prints on the table. I just got it and I hate cleaning fingerprints off the glass.”

As I waited for her to come back with my drink, I kept my hands tucked neatly under the table in my lap.

I was here for one reason and one reason only. To ask her about that time when Jack came to stay with her.

But now that I was here … I couldn’t help thinking about my mother too. Lane was the only one still in contact with her. Over the years, my mother had sent her postcards and she’d forwarded some of them on to us as teens. I can remember a few birthdays, getting envelopes stuffed with dollars. But then, those eventually stopped too.

Lane returned, carrying a white flowery cup of tea. She sat it on a coaster in front of me.

I lifted it to my lips shakily and blanched at the bitter taste of it.

“So, how are you, dear? It’s been too long since I saw your face,” she said, sitting down beside me. She rested her well-manicured, paper-thin hands on my arm. The touch surprised me, but mostly it felt strange because I enjoyed it … how good it was to be touched by a family member after so long. I’d forgotten what that felt like.

“You’ve aged quite a bit though, haven’t you?” she asked, abruptly.

I pulled back from her and sighed. No, she hasn’t changed a bit despite what she says, I decided.

“Yes, I have. But you look great, of course. How are you, Aunt Lane?”

She smiled, something in the way her eyebrows moved reminding me of my father.

“I’m all right. Same-o, same-o. And I’m happy to see you, but I’m a little surprised. You should have called first,” she said. So much for not needing to call.

“Sorry about that. I need to ask you some questions about Jack,” I said.

Lane’s face fell. “That poor boy. I’d kill him myself if I could, for leaving us behind the way he did…”

I flinched at the harshness of her words.

“Yeah … well, I wanted to ask you about a time he came to stay with you for a few days. He was young at the time, almost sixteen. Jenny Juliott was murdered while Jack was at your house. Do you remember that?” I asked, carefully.

Lane frowned. “Well, of course I do. I’m old, not senile. And how could I forget? He was here with me when we heard the awful news about that girl.”

“When did he come to stay exactly?”

“Well, it was the night before it happened. Your father brought him to me. He wanted to stay with his Aunt Lane for a few days. We were close, remember?”

I did remember.

It had always bothered me how much she favored him, pinching his cheeks and doting over him on Christmas. Inviting him over, but then not me. Mom used to say it was because Jack reminded her of Daddy, and I reminded her of Mom. They were as close as in-laws could be, I guess, but I suspected there was some tension, or disconnect, between my mom and Lane. Which is why I found it so odd that they had kept up communication over the years…

She doesn’t want to talk to her husband or children, but she wants to talk to old aunt Lane … and now there’s only one of us left and she still doesn’t care. I’ll never forgive Mom for leaving us, I decided, heavily.

“I do remember that. But I was wondering why he came the night before. Was something wrong? I feel like I was so young … I can’t put all the pieces of that terrible time back together in my head,” I said.

Lane pursed her lips. “I don’t remember a particular reason. Although you don’t need