She Lied She Died

by Carissa Ann Lynch

I hadn’t thought about the case in over a decade. Chrissy had been tried and convicted, sentenced to life in prison despite her age at the time of the crime. I used to be obsessed, but not any more.

  The media had forgotten, as had I; we’d moved on to similar cases, ones with gorier details and more exciting bylines splashed across the nightly news.

  But, of course, Austin hadn’t forgotten. And as much as I tried to push it away, I hadn’t let it go either. Jenny was always there; a memory, a warning … a piece of my childhood I couldn’t get back. Perhaps there was a small part of me that blamed her death for the fallout of my own childhood…

  A lot can change in thirty years—but a lot can stay the same.

  The third step on the corkscrew staircase still creaks when I step on it; the bathroom and cellar still stink of Clorox and mold like they did when Mom and Dad lived here.

  Inheriting my family’s farm ten years ago should have been a blessing, and when I was thirty, it had sort of felt like one. But thirty turned into thirty-five, and just last week, I celebrated my fortieth birthday the way I did my thirty-ninth—alone.

  Wearing only socks and undies, I tiptoed from my room—my parents’ former bedroom—and made my way for the stairs. Every light in the house was off, which was how I liked it. If I can’t see the shadows, then they can’t see me…

  As I wound my way up the stairs, I caught a glimpse of moonlight through the picture windows in the kitchen … it can’t be much later than two, maybe three, in the morning…

  So, what woke me?

  There were sounds, but nothing unusual. The creaky old floorboards, the low hum of the refrigerator downstairs, the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in my office, which I’d converted from Jack’s old bedroom.

  Sometimes I caught glimpses of the place as it was before … Mom in the living room reading paperback mysteries, Dad at the table with the Times, and Jack mounted up in the living room watching Star Wars … their ghosts, just a flicker of movement, a light hollowed sound through the walls…

  But there was something else this morning, something real … whiny and synchronous, coming from the side of the house. And just like that, my legs were shorter and thinner … I was nine years old again, creeping toward my brother’s bedroom window, following the warning moans that lay beyond the dingy clapboard walls of my daddy’s farmhouse.

  It can’t be. There’s no reason for an ambulance … no way there’s anything out there. Maybe this is all a dream … a memory…

  The door to Jack’s old bedroom was closed up tight. I’d like to think I kept it closed to ensure the privacy of my home office, but in truth, I think I did it out of habit.

  Jack would want it that way.

  I nudged the door open with my foot and, trancelike, I tiptoed toward the window facing the field.

  When someone dies, it’s not unusual for their family or friends to keep their rooms exactly as they once were. But with Jack … I couldn’t. Erasing him felt better, easier … and so, the first thing I did when I moved back home ten years ago was tear out the carpet and take his old bedroom furniture out and replace it with a modern oak desk and shelves. A computer and a desk—the necessities for any writer. But I hadn’t written a word in years.

  As I edged closer to the window, there was no doubt: someone was out in the field. But that sound … it wasn’t sirens; no gaudy red rubies bouncing through the trees, ricocheting from my heart to my head.

  But what I saw took my breath away.

  A circle of people, each one holding a candle in front of them.

  Thirty years later, and still: the first thing that comes to mind is a pagan ritual.

  They were singing, something low and melancholy, flames from their candles casting ghoulish shadows over their faces.

  I felt a flicker of rage. How dare they waltz on my property like they own the place? This isn’t a tourist attraction!

  But in a way it had been … people had come from all over to see the “spot” the first few years after the murder. Sometimes, Dad would chase them off with a shotgun … but after a while, he took to ignoring them. “Easier that way,” he told me.

  But since I’d come home, there hadn’t been a single unwanted visitor. Until now.

  I’d assumed that most had forgotten Jenny Juliott and the girl who’d killed her.

  Snapping the bolts to unlock the window, I shoved on the glass and poked my head all the way out, forgetting about my lacy black bra.

  “Hey! What are you doing?” I shouted. It was windy, and chilly for October, and my words blew back angrily in my face.

  I tried again. “Hello! It’s, like, two in the morning…” I screamed so loud I could feel veins protruding from my forehead.

  And just like that, the singing stopped. Nearly a dozen heads turned my way.

  “Hey, Natalie,” came a woman’s voice in the dark. As I squinted, she stepped into the sliver of moonlight in the field and pushed back the hood of a dark gray sweatshirt.

  She looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her. Was she someone I went to school with?

  It’s funny how over time every face looks familiar, but at the same time, I could never remember names. My childhood just a splotch on my memory board…

  “Hey,” I answered, dully.

  Another woman stepped up beside the first. This one had black curls and, despite the chill in the air, she was wearing a white T-shirt and thin multi-colored yoga pants. A face I’d never forget: Adrianna Montgomery, forgotten friend turned local columnist. I tried to avoid her in town at all costs, but I saw her occasionally at the supermarket and Kmart when I was working. I usually pretended not to and luckily, she did the same.

  “Natalie, it’s good to see you. Sorry we’re out here, but we tried to call you first … we wanted to honor Jenny, especially considering the latest news. We can’t forget what that monster did to her, you know?” Adrianna said.

  The latest news?

  My lousy paychecks from Kmart weren’t enough to justify getting cable. I had just enough to eat, fill up my car with gas, and gas the tractor for cutting the field in the warmer months … I didn’t keep up with local news, or national news either.

  “What news? I haven’t seen it,” I said, voice barely above a whisper.

  The other faces in the crowd slowly materialized like old ghosts; I recognized a few of my former classmates and Jenny’s brother in the crowd. My heart sank with guilt when I saw him. Although I’d seen most of the others around town, I hadn’t seen him in years. I’d heard that he moved away.

  As a kid, whenever Mom or I would see Jenny’s family in town after the murder, we’d avert our eyes. Try to make ourselves invisible. Not because we blamed them, of course, but because we didn’t know what to say … what can you say to someone who’s lost a loved one that way? And perhaps, there was also a nasty little sliver inside us, that selfish part that worried their tragedy might become ours. That somehow it was contagious … in the same way people avoided me and my home because of what happened here…

  Unfortunately for us, avoiding the Juliotts didn’t do us any good because look at what happened to Jack.

  So, as Mike Juliott stepped forward, I forced myself to meet his gaze. He was her brother—if anyone had a right to be here it was him.

  Mike cleared his throat. “Didn’t you hear? They’re letting that monster out. Bitch got paroled. Chrissy Cornwall is coming home.”

  Chapter Three

  Chrissy Cornwall is coming home. Five words I thought I’d never hear.

  Mike Juliott’s mid-morning announcement rolled over and back in my gullet as I scraped watery eggs onto my plate and buttered two pieces of toast.

  It was Thursday, which meant I had the day off (a pretty shitty day to have off, I admit), but I was up early anyway.

  No matter how late my mother stayed up at night, she always rose for the day by 5am. As a kid, her early-morning antics had irritated me no end—on weekends, I’d tried to sleep in, but then I’
d hear her: banging pots in the kitchen, boiling tea by the light of the moon.

  One time I asked her why she did it—what is the point of it all?

  “I used to sleep in like you do, but then I realized that I feel better about myself when I wake up early. There’s no guilt, and it makes for a good night’s rest.”

  At the time, it sounded stupid.

  But as an adult, I understood.

  There is nothing worse than lying in bed at night with regrets and getting up early to accomplish everything I need to do reduces that slightly.

  I munched my toast, ate a spoonful of eggs, then chugged half a cup of coffee. There was a list of things I needed to do—grocery shopping, laundry, etc.

  But all I could think about was Chrissy Cornwall.

  Could it be true?

  When they sentenced her to life, we all assumed that meant she would stay in prison for “life”.

  I understood why Mike was angry; he had every right to be. And the other people … well, most of the townsfolk had children, and I could understand why they didn’t want a murderer in town.

  But my heart was in knots about it, my feelings mixed. Chrissy was fifteen when she got locked up. That must make her, what? Forty-five or forty-six?

  Thinking back to who I was at fifteen versus who I was now … so many things had changed.

  But at the same time, nothing has.

  I was still the same girl deep inside, only now my mousy brown hair was streaked with gray, my face a spider web of wrinkles and broken blood vessels.

  And as I looked around the same dingy kitchen from my childhood, with its peeling daisy wallpaper and cock-a-doodle-doo plaques on the wall … I felt more certain than ever that time was standing still.

  I’m still here. Still me. I never thought I would be stuck in the same place, but I am. And if I haven’t changed much, has Chrissy? Do any of us … really?

  I left as soon as I had the chance, right after my high school graduation. I had big dreams of going to college and becoming a writer, and I fulfilled one of those—I worked a tough package-handling job that helped pay for my tiny apartment and covered the school expenses that my student loans didn’t. I sacrificed my social life and moved to a college town in neighboring Kentucky where I had no family, no friends… I thought I’d have plenty of time for the fun stuff after college. But then Jack happened and somehow, I was back where I started—doing nothing with my degree, and just as lonely (if not more) here than I ever had been.

  Yes, I had changed. It was hard not to after all that I’d gone through. And for the sake of Austin, I hoped Chrissy had changed too.

  If she was really coming home, the town would be buzzing with it soon.

  They already are, I realized, circling back to those ghoulish faces I’d seen in the field last night.

  I scrubbed my dish and fork with soap and water, then left them to dry in the sink. Taking my coffee with me, I trudged up the stairs to my office. It had been so long since I’d turned on my computer, since I’d felt the punchy feel of my keys.

  I missed writing. But mostly, I missed the hope I’d held onto for so long—that one day I’d produce a great book. I wrote every night in my little apartment in Kentucky, mostly fiction—in the small gaps of time between work and school. I’d tried pitching some of my ideas to small publishers and agents, but without any luck.

  Since coming home ten years ago, I’d been unable to write much of anything. Austin was, essentially, uninspiring.

  My fingers glided effortlessly across the keyboard, typing Chrissy’s name in the Google search bar. I shivered despite the heat of my coffee—is the furnace going out? Why is it so damn cold in October?

  It had been years since I’d checked up on Chrissy or researched the Juliott murder. As a teen and young adult, I’d been obsessed, and the invention of the internet had been both a blessing and a curse—it provided a wider window for my obsession and provided access to the horrors I’d tried—and failed—to forget.

  The crime scene photos online were eerie. Some fake, but most of them real. And like the photos, the stories were a mix—conspiracy theories, repetitive summaries of the case. Podcasts and articles were helpful, and addictive, but the story was too complex for a six-paragraph op-ed.

  It’s not like the story hadn’t been written—it had: twice. Little Angel in the Field and Evil in Austin had flown off the shelves. I’d dreamed of writing the story myself—who better than me?—but I’d never been able to get past the first few pages. After all, everything had already been written… What more do I have to add to the discussion? And what do I really know about writing true crime?

  Several news articles filled my screen: the headline Child Killer Released caught my eye immediately.

  Child Killer Released. It wasn’t a lie exactly—but it was a double entendre. Yes, Chrissy had murdered a kid—but what the headline failed to capture was the fact that she had been a kid herself when she did it. Did the person writing this intend for the reader to feel confused? Is Chrissy a child killer, or a child who killed? She’s both, I reminded myself. Both.

  I scrolled and scrolled, reading more: Jenny Juliott’s Killer Released from Indiana Women’s Prison. I focused on another article instead, one with a more gripping headline: Something Wicked This Way Comes: The Monster Returns to Austin.

  I clicked, immediately recognizing the article’s author, Adrianna Montgomery: class president, town know-it-all, and senior columnist of the Austin Gazette.

  She’d been standing in the dark amongst the others last night, her eyes judging me as they had for years…

  Once upon a time, we had been best of friends. But that all changed after Jenny. Adrianna’s parents had fallen into the category of people who tried to avoid our family and our house as much as possible. Adrianna was no longer allowed to come over, and at school, she avoided me there too. Even now, when I saw her in town, there was this wall between us … something dark and hard. Impenetrable. I hated her for turning her back on me, for standing back while the others at school teased me about the farm and what happened there. And now, seeing her flourishing as a journalist made me cringe with jealousy.

  I read the first few lines of her article:

  It’s been thirty years since the beloved Jenny Juliott was brutally sacrificed on the Breyas Farm. It feels like only yesterday to those who loved her. So, imagine the shock and outrage we all felt when we heard the news: Chrissy Cornwall is getting out of prison. What sort of failing system lets a monster like her out after only thirty years? Townspeople should take to the streets, petition the mayor—

  I minimized the screen, rubbing my eyes in annoyance. The article was bullshit. Adrianna Montgomery had been my age when the murder happened. She didn’t know the beloved Jenny any more than I did. And calling her murder a ‘sacrifice’ made it sound like something from the occult. The murder didn’t even happen on our property … she was dumped here.

  Any minute now, the field will be crawling with reporters … hunting witches in Austin. Thanks a lot, Adrianna.

  I clicked on another article, this one national news from Crime Times. I waited for the grainy image to load, tapping the desk impatiently.

  When it did, I gasped.

  It was a split shot—on the left, a mugshot of Chrissy with her jet-black hair and hypnotic blue eyes. I’d seen this photo a million times over the years—she had grinned in her arrest photo, exposing gapped front teeth and her feral demeanor. Little shocks of white in her hair gave her an ethereal quality.

  She looked like a maniac.

  But the photo on the right was something else entirely … it showed a middle-aged woman, with stringy salt-and-pepper hair and sad gunmetal-gray eyes being escorted out of prison. This time, when Chrissy’s eyes met the camera, she hadn’t smiled.

  She looked downright sad and ashamed. Defeated.

  I maximized the image, studying the woman that I hadn’t seen in years—there had been a few photos from prison, but nothin
g in more than a decade. Supposedly, she had denied all interviews with the press after her trial.

  There were no traces of the girl in the woman. Where did she go?

  Her jowls were thicker, her chin whiskery … and she’d put on nearly fifty pounds. It was hard to correlate the wild teen in the mug shot with this sad old woman beside her.

  Skipping over the article itself, I typed in the search bar: Where is Chrissy Cornwall moving to in Austin.

  I didn’t expect to find an answer—surely, she’d try to keep her address private. And I knew she wasn’t moving back to her childhood home by the creek because it had been abandoned for years now, her deadbeat parents skipping town for good and local teens trashing the place during midnight drunk dares to visit the murderer’s house…

  But my search provided an immediate hit. Not only was her address online, but also the addresses for every living relative of hers in the country.

  Someone had discovered her location, essentially doxing her.

  4840 Willow Run Road.

  Stunned, I settled back in my chair, reading the address over and over again. Not only was Chrissy coming home, but she was moving less than a mile from here. It made sense why she’d picked it; Austin was a small farming community, but most people lived in the center business district of town. She was moving to the outskirts near me—the place where outcasts reside.

  Is she already there? Already moved in? I wondered. The thought of her being so close, breathing the same recycled air as me, made my stomach twist with unease.

  I did another search, trying to figure out when she had been released exactly. I got an instant hit—they let her out two days ago.

  Willow Run Road was a long road, but I guessed she was moving into one of the trailers people sold or rented out there. Who is paying for her place? I wondered. Somebody must be.

  With a sideways glance out the window, I looked on as reporters grazed through my field like wide-eyed cows.

  I didn’t even hear them pull in.

  A flash of cold white skin, those bulgy gray eyes…