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

But what is there to say that hasn’t already been hashed over a million times? The only person who can tell me more is Chrissy herself.

Determinedly, I took a seat in front of the computer and pulled up Microsoft Word. I started typing a letter, but then, changing my mind, I opened a drawer, taking out thick tan sheets of stationery and a ballpoint pen.

Handwritten is more personal.

Head bent low, I began crafting a letter to a killer.

The chances of Chrissy Cornwall agreeing to speak with me were slim to none, but what did I have to lose?

So, imagine my surprise when, a few days later, she showed up at my front door.

Chapter Four

Icy cold breaths crackled the morning air and I shivered, clutching the thick gray quilt to my chest. That damn furnace … it has to be like, what? Fifty degrees in here?

My shift didn’t start until noon and after my late-night scrolling on subreddit about the case, I needed an extra hour or two of sleep…

I closed my eyes, teeth chattering despite the heavy blanket.

My eyes fluttered open again as I heard the panic-inducing thumps at the front door. Even now, thirty years later, the sounds of knocking disturbed me. Reporters, cops … you never knew who would turn up at the Breyas farm.

Ignore them.

I scurried deeper under the blankets, covering my mouth and nose. Squeezing my eyes shut as I tried to keep my nerves at bay…

But the thumping grew louder. More determined.

Fuck.

And there was something else too … the buzz and whine of voices. I pushed the covers back, listening.

There’s more than one person out there.

The whir of voices grew louder, until there was no mistaking it: people were shouting.

I threw the covers off with a low growl and stumbled out of my parents’ old bed.

The wood floors felt like patches of ice beneath my bare feet as I tiptoed to the front living room, trying not to make a sound.

“What are your plans here? How do you know Natalie Breyas?” A nervous rush of fear at the sound of my own name lodged in my chest and throat. Breathlessly, I pressed my ear to the thick wooden door, struggling to interpret the buzz of what could only be an angry hive of reporters outside.

A sick trickle of fear came over me as I had a flash of memory—my dad in the doorway, cameras flashing in his eyes … he’d reached for one of the cameras, hands tangling with the reporter instead, and as I’d watched the incident unfold on the local news, I’d been filled with horror and shame. My dad’s reaction to the reporters had been understandable, but not to them … Is Robert Breyas a violent man? What does he have to hide? That’s what the next day’s headlines had read.

They had wanted to make him look bad. And they succeeded.

They also succeeded in driving my mother away. She was never the same after that, and finally she left us for good, at a time in my life when I needed her most.

I yelped as another bang vibrated through my cheek and ricocheted through my skull.

Whoever was on the other side wasn’t giving up.

Remembering my dad’s regrettable fury, I composed myself, smoothing licks of wild hair from my face and wiping residue from last night’s mascara from my cheeks.

“Evil bitch!” That was a man’s voice, a booming rasp of pure hatred.

Before I could change my mind, I unlatched the deadbolt and swung the front door open. Morning sunlight and the flash of a dozen cameras bombarded me, and temporarily, I was blind. Shielding my face, I squinted out at the hazy crowds of people and the mess of news vans tearing up my front yard.

But they all faded to static … background noise … because leaning against the side of my house, head ducked protectively to her chest, was someone I recognized. In the dusty haze of cold morning light, she looked almost … celestial. Head lifted, her eyes raising to meet mine…

She opened her mouth and said, “Hello. I’m Chrissy Cornwall.”

Chapter Five

As though I didn’t already know that. How could I not? I’d studied her face … dreamed of it, even.

Once again, I was baffled by her appearance. On TV a few days ago, she had looked old and pitiful. Some might even say regretful.

But now, face red and rageful, jaw jumping in her cheek … she looked like the feral woman from before.

“Who the fuck do they think they are, huh? I did my time. And I’m still doing it! They surround Dennis’s trailer night and day, banging on the window like vultures. That has to be a crime, doesn’t it? Harassment, or something?!”

I couldn’t respond. Couldn’t breathe.

Chrissy Cornwall, convicted child killer and killer of children, was standing in the center of my living room, hands on her hips like she owned the place. Unknowingly, I had backed myself into a corner of the room, arms crossed over my chest and backside pressed against a wobbly bookshelf that housed dozens of true crime novels. Including the two that featured none other than Chrissy herself.

Chrissy was tall and broad-shouldered—larger than she’d looked in her photos. She unraveled a soft blue scarf from around her neck, endlessly twisting, then plucked a matching wool hat off her head. I watched as she shook out her shiny long locks of hair—it had been washed recently, the scent of jasmine floating through the air. Her hair had also been dyed—the wiry black hair with the silvery streaks was gone, replaced with an odd attempt at going blonde that gave her hair a peachy look.

Chrissy raised her still-dark eyebrows at me and smiled expectantly. When I said nothing, she sighed, then folded up her scarf. She placed it neatly on the loveseat, along with her hat.

“I got your letter. I thought you wanted to talk to me,” she said, her eyes crinkling with amusement. She leaned her