He was too young for me, not to mention my boss … but I’d fantasized about him a few times since starting here. He was kind and handsome, with those underlying bad boy tones.
I caught myself licking my lips as I stared at his. How long has it been since I’ve been with a man? I tried to rewind the clock and count back … a year, maybe? Probably closer to two.
I’d gone on a couple dates since moving to Austin, but nothing beyond dinner and sex. And in college, most of the neighbors in my apartment complex were either married or old.
I’ll never meet a man in this town, I thought, drearily. But maybe … if I’m busy with my new writing career, I won’t mind it.
I frowned when I saw Shane’s expression. He looked … concerned. Angry, possibly. What the hell? I’d seen him irritated with some of my co-workers, but never me.
And that’s when it hit me: the news coverage. My name and face splashed all over the local news, not to mention my “mention” on a popular international podcast. What might he think of me after seeing and hearing all that?
Fear bloomed in my chest as I considered something worse than losing his acceptance: is he going to fire me because of all this?
His eyebrows furrowed, then he asked, “Are you doing okay, Natalie?”
As fond of me as Shane seemed and despite my minor crush on him, he rarely asked me direct, personal questions.
“Yeah. Doing great. Thanks for asking,” I said, awkwardly.
“Because I heard about what happened … and I’m a little concerned. Are you holding up okay?”
I released a breath, the comforting concern in his voice easing my nerves slightly.
“I’m okay. A little overwhelmed by all this, but fine.”
I sat down across from him, letting out an anxious whoosh of breath as I settled in the chair.
Shane nodded slowly, taking this in. I wasn’t sure if he believed me.
“Are you really going to write that woman’s story? I mean, I knew you liked to write, but I had no idea that true crime was something that interested you. It’s a little macabre, don’t you think?”
I’m doing it because … well, I guess it’s because I’m in that second group of people, the kind that slow down and look at tragedy. It’s not because I enjoy the macabre; it’s because I’m SO affected by it. I can’t look away—there’s no choice in the matter. I have to know the truth, down to the gritty details.
“Don’t you think, Natalie?” Shane repeated, shaking me out of my trance.
“Well, I’m not planning on leaving Kmart if that’s what you mean. But we did set up an interview to discuss it. I promise that I won’t let it interfere with my job,” I said, wistfully. By “we”, I meant Chrissy and me, but I didn’t dare say her name. This town hated her name.
Shane smiled and again, I felt a small flicker of relief.
“You’re a great employee, Natalie. One my best. Actually, you probably are the best.”
My cheeks warmed. “Thank you, sir. That means a lot.”
His grin evaporated.
“That’s why this is so hard…”
Oh no.
And that’s when I knew it: I’m losing my job! All because of this stupid media coverage…
“Please don’t do this. I really need the money,” I whined. It was true: I did. Even though the pay wasn’t great, it was steady. And I needed a regular income to pay my bills and keep the farm.
“Natalie,” he said, steepling his fingers pensively. I’d never heard him say my name so many times in one day. Frankly, I didn’t like it.
“I didn’t bring you in here to fire you. I don’t care what anyone says—you’re an exemplary employee. But I’ve received word from the higher-ups … Annie from Corporate has asked me to give you a couple weeks off until the circus dies down. There have been complaints and they are concerned about their reputation.”
Annie from Corporate. I don’t even know who that is.
“What sort of complaints?” I asked, nervously.
“From a couple employees and customers … they’re threatening to quit or boycott the store if we don’t let you go.”
“I thought you said…”
“I’m not firing you. All I’m asking for is a couple weeks … cooperate with me here. It’s just until things blow over. The last thing we need is some sort of circus around here, making us look bad.”
“But…”
“And you know the store is already struggling. I can’t afford for all of us to lose our jobs over this, Natalie.”
“Paid or unpaid?” The question was pointless. I already knew the answer.
“Unpaid.” Shane grimaced.
“Fine. It doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice here.” I stood up, eyes glistening with tears. I swiped at my face, hating myself for coming across as weak in front of him.
“Seriously, you know how much I like you. You’re a great employee…”
“Thanks, Shane. I’ve got to go.” I scurried out of his office, the need to let loose all my hot wet tears leaving me breathless. There was a knot in my throat, thickening by the second. I have to get out of here. NOW.
Regina was still in the break room, sweeping up an invisible pile of dirt. She was humming, a tiny smile forming at the corners of her lips.
I’m sure Regina will be more than willing to cover my shifts for me.
I held my head down as I grabbed my things from my locker and went back outside, a gush of wind and crispy dead leaves pinwheeling around me as I crossed the parking lot.
The media wasn’t outside, and I probably won’t even see Chrissy again! And now I have to spend two weeks, unpaid, off work because of this bogus bullshit. And why didn’t she show up this morning?! I need this fucking job…
Twenty minutes later, I was back at the farm. I threw my purse and windbreaker on the sofa then charged up the stairs to my office.
What am I going to do all week, now that I’m off work and Chrissy changed her mind? Maybe if I make a public statement—that I’m not writing the book—they’ll let me come back to work and earn my paycheck…
My computer screen was lit up, my email open. I narrowed my eyes at it. What the hell? I thought I shut the computer down this morning before I left.
I was usually so good about logging out and shutting it down, doing it most evenings as though on auto-pilot.
I glanced around my office, a strange wisp of paranoia settling in. Did someone break in, go through my emails…?
But as my eyes scanned the room, I couldn’t see anything out of place. No one had rummaged through my desk or closet … nothing was out of the ordinary, besides the lit-up computer screen.
I did a quick walk through the rest of the second-floor rooms, feeling strangely foolish.
I must have left it on or accidentally hit restart. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done that. Plus, I was pretty distracted and hung over this morning.
I took a seat in the soft leather desk chair, my eyes scanning through emails, only briefly registering advertisements and social media notifications. I stopped on an unopened email that looked like it had come from a personal account: scapegoat227 at yahoo.
The subject line had been left blank.
Scapegoat. Is that what she thinks she is? But … a scapegoat for who?
I clicked on the email, noting that it had arrived at 7:30 this morning.
Hi Natalie,
* * *
I don’t know much about email but here is mine. Can’t meet you this morning. There are a dozen reporters camped outside and most have been here all night. Can we meet tonight instead? I was thinking you could come here. Are you cool with that? Dennis works 3rd shift so we can get some quiet time to do the interview. Can you come around 11pm?
* * *
C
Eleven o’clock at night? I mean, it’s not like I had to work tonight, but I wasn’t sure how I felt about meeting on Chrissy’s own turf … and that late at night. Would it be safe there?
There was no point in mulling it over—my mind was already made up. I wrote her back, keeping my message brief:
See you at 11.
Compared to the sanctuary of my family farm, Dennis’s trailer looked downright desolate. It was silent and dark; a rusty old double-wide with a broken-down Chrysler parked haphazardly in the grass out front. It was a secluded lot, set back from the road and surrounded by trees on all sides. I looked around for a motorcycle but didn’t see one.
The gravel driveway was empty of cars; no media around, much to my relief.
I wonder how she got the media to leave. Maybe, hopefully, they gave up for the night … thinking Dennis was gone and that Chrissy had gone to bed.
I pulled into the gravel drive, my heart in my throat as the tires spun, kicking up gravel and dust. I took a deep breath and forced myself to get out of the car. Was coming here a mistake?
I kept my eyes on the trailer as I went around to the passenger side of my car and scooped up my heavy bag of notes, tape recorder, and the letter opener (just in case), which I tucked in my back jeans pocket.
I swung the bag over my right shoulder and followed a rickety wheelchair ramp up to the front door. As I approached, I could see two soft lights glowing from inside.
I raised my hand to knock just as the door swung open.
Chrissy stood in the dimly lit doorway; hair piled messily in a bun on top of her head. She looked … sleepy.
“Should I come back or…?” My throat was dry, tongue like sandpaper sticking to the roof of my mouth. I chastised myself for not bringing along a bottle of water or breath mints.
“No, of course not. Get in here,” Chrissy barked. She shoved the screen wider, looking past me toward the empty driveway and road beyond.
As soon as I was inside, she closed and bolted the door behind me.
“Fooled them, didn’t we?” she said with a chuckle.
“Who? The media?”
“Who else? Those pestering assholes didn’t expect you to come here. And the house has been pitch dark for hours. They finally pulled out about an hour ago. I was worried I’d have to cancel on you again. Come on…” As I followed Chrissy through a dark living room and through an archway into a cramped eat-in kitchen, I couldn’t help noticing how nice the interior of the trailer was. Sure, it was old and sparse, but it looked clean and well taken care of. The sink and counters were sparkling, the couch and armchair in the living room worn but cared-for.
Chrissy settled into a seat at the table, nodding for me to take a seat too.
“I brought a tape recorder. Is that okay? It’s to help me review later … while I’m writing.” I don’t know why I expected her to refuse, but she simply shrugged and shook out a pack of Camels from her loose-fitting sweatpants. She lit a cigarette then offered me the pack.
“No, thank you,” I said, tempted to take one anyway. It had been nearly four years since I’d smoked one and the peppery cloud of smoke that filled my lungs burned with intensity, and memories of times long gone…
“Just a sec.” Chrissy stood and shuffled to the counter, flipping off all the kitchen lights except a yellowish heat lamp by the stove. “That’s better,” she sighed, slipping back in her chair. She took a long drag from her cigarette and blew a ring of smoke in my direction. I didn’t flinch; instead, I stared down the convicted murderer, determined to get the truth once and for all. She doesn’t scare me. I won’t let her manipulate me. There’s more to this story—I know there is.
In the dimly lit room, Chrissy’s features had softened, taking on a youthful, heady glow. The crinkles around her mouth, the scar on her cheek, were barely visible in the dark. Briefly, I could almost believe she was the girl again—the young thuggish girl in her mugshot photo—not the old, sad woman they hauled out of prison…
I stared down at my tape recorder. It felt too stiff, unnatural. For now, I decided not to use it.
“Were you born in Austin? There’s so much about your teenage years online … but nothing much about before.”
Chrissy smiled. “Sure was. What a shitty place to grow up in, am I right?”
She erupted with laughter that quickly morphed into coughing.
“What about your family? Can you tell me a bit about them?”
Chrissy frowned, eyes growing distant as she thought about her life before.
“Well, I had two brothers. Both older than me. Trevor and Trent.”
“Did you get along?” I pressed.
Chrissy shrugged, stubbed out her cigarette, then immediately reached for another.
“Like I said, they were older. Trevor was four years older and Trent was six. They were closer with each other than they were with me. Dad was a truck driver. Gone most of the time.” She narrowed her eyes wistfully through the smoke.
“And your mother?” I’d seen photos of Ruby Juliott—she’d looked like an older, skinnier version of Chrissy now.
“She stayed home with us and she loved the boys. They were her everything.”
I searched Chrissy’s face for traces of bitterness or jealousy but found none.
“Didn’t she love you too?”
Chrissy stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette and pushed the chair back, startling me.
“Well, of course she did. She was my mother after all.” She walked over to the refrigerator, opened it up with a bang and peered inside it. “What would you like to drink? Soda, milk … beer?”
My stomach still raw from last night’s whiskey, I surprised myself by saying, “I’ll have a beer, please.” Anything to take the edge off.
Chrissy took out a Miller Lite and popped the top, then walked over and sat it down in front of me. She poured herself a glass of milk, hands shaky as she did so. I wanted to ask more questions—mainly, why she’d confessed to the murder she now claimed she didn’t commit.
“Look.” Chrissy took a long swig of milk, coating her upper lip. She belched loudly, then got up and poured the rest down the sink. “Can we skip some of the early questions?”
For someone who had just spent half her life in prison, I felt a little insulted by the fact that she was “bored”. But I had to admit, my stiff line of questioning wasn’t going anywhere.
“I know it’s hard to talk about family. It’s hard for me too. But these details are important … readers will want to know all about your background when they read the book. It’s important to get the full picture,” I explained.
Chrissy waved a hand at me and came back over to the table to sit down. “Fine. Ask me more. But then can I just talk for a while?”
“Sure,” I conceded.
I cleared my throat. Already, she had thrown me off my game. If asking my initial questions had made me nervous earlier, now I was downright uncomfortable.
“Your mother homeschooled you and your siblings. What was that like for you?”
Chrissy chuckled. “I know what you heard. That the Cornwall kids were nothing but trash and our parents couldn’t afford to send us to school.”
I shook my head. “That’s not what I heard. Remember, I was young when all of this went down, Chrissy. I don’t know…”
But she was exactly right—that is what I’d heard.
“But you heard plenty else probably. Did they tell you that my father beat us? That my mama was a prostitute on drugs? That CPS came out a few times, but never had cause to take us?”
Rattled, I put down my pen and gave her my full attention.
“There are many stories, Chrissy. But I want to know your version. The real version … because that’s the only one that matters right now. I don’t know if you did it or not, but this case has always haunted me. And frankly, I never bought the idea that you killed her all by yourself. You were just a child.”
Chrissy’s face softened, her limbs loosening as she leaned back in her chair.
“My daddy never beat us. And I never saw my mom with no other men…”
I waited for her to say more.
“But
the drugs … that part was sort of true. Mom’s brother, my uncle Joey, he was a dealer then. Mom offered to help him; I guess we needed the money. But then something went wrong, as it does when you deal with that shit. She got herself hooked on pain pills.”
“How did Joey react?” His name ping-ponged around my brain … I wasn’t familiar with him. Had any of the other books or online articles made mention of Chrissy’s uncle…?
“He was pissed. See, they weren’t real brother and sister. Mom’s mom died when she was young, and Joey’s mom raised her as her own daughter. So, I think there was already some resentment there.”
“What did he do when he realized she was dipping into the stash they were supposed to be selling?” I pressed.
“He showed up drunk one night. Dad wasn’t home; he never was. Joey beat the hell out of Mom. Gave the boys a good ass-kicking too.”
“And you? What did he do to you?”
Chrissy’s smile was shaky. She took a long, slow drag of her cigarette, then said, “What do you think he did?”
I could only imagine the number of creepy things shitty mean uncles might do to a young, vulnerable girl like Chrissy…
“I’m so sorry that happened to you.”
Chrissy’s solemn expression spread into a wide smile, then she shocked me with a snort of laughter.
“I’m messing with you, Nat. He didn’t lay a hand on me. My uncle was many things, but he wasn’t a pervert. And although he beat the boys and Mom too, I was never a part of that. I was his favorite and when he left me that night, cleaning up blood and knocked-over furniture from the fight, he told me: ‘Chrissy, try to get them in line, would ya?’”
Chrissy cackled, and coughed, eyes fuzzy as she thought back to that day.
Her laughter was strange, and so out of place, but I couldn’t help seeing it for what it was: a way to deflect the pain. Chrissy grew up rough and I’d always known that, but hearing it from her felt different. I could see the pain she was trying to hide behind the tough exterior and the inappropriate laughing.
She Lied She Died Page 5
