“If you were innocent of killing Jenny Juliott, why did you confess to the crime?” I asked, tentatively.
“They didn’t leave me much choice, did they?” Chrissy snapped, her voice raising defensively.
“Who is ‘they’?”
“Them. You. The whole god damn town. Not a single person would have believed it.” Chrissy sat back in her seat and sighed.
“Believed what?” my voice a shaky whisper now.
Chrissy leaned forward and I did too. The small gap of desktop between us forgotten.
“That when bad girls lie, good girls die.”
I sat back in my chair, exasperated. What the hell does that mean?
“Well, if you didn’t kill her then who did?”
Chrissy smiled, showing all her teeth for the first time. They were crooked with a distinctive gap, just like the thousands of photos I’d stared at online. There was something ferocious about that smile … something hungry and wild. A chill started at the base of my spine and prickled all the way to my scalp.
Why is she smiling like that?
“The answer is actually pretty obvious if you think about it. I was set up,” Chrissy said.
“By whom?” I asked, breathlessly.
I leaned forward again, eager to hear what came next. But the sounds of a blaring car horn outside interrupted us.
“Sorry. I have to go. That’s my ride. Dennis.”
She stood up and I stood up too.
“You’re going already?”
“Yeah. I wanted to meet you first. Size you up. Same time tomorrow?” Chrissy said with a wild grin.
Moments later, I peered through the curtains as a burly man with a full-sleeve of tattoos led Chrissy through the crowd of reporters, barreling through them and elbowing a path for her.
Size me up. What the hell does that mean?
And who is Dennis?
The tattooed man wrenched open the passenger door of his monster-sized Dodge truck and gave her a boost inside, his hand lingering on the seat of her jeans.
He peeled out of my driveway and moments later, the crowd of reporters were gone. Like the blowflies swarming around Jenny’s body, once the corpse was gone, they were too…
Yet one car remained in the gravel drive—a shiny gold Toyota.
Through the window, I stared at the dark-haired woman behind the wheel and she stared back at me. Her eyes were angry green slashes; her rosebud lips puckered up with disdain. Disdain for me, or for Chrissy? Possibly both…?
“Go away, Adrianna. Stop posturing,” I muttered to myself.
I waited for her to either get out and try to talk to me or leave. I was relieved when she chose the latter.
There was no love lost between us; I couldn’t forgive her for turning her back on me. Just like Mom, she gave up on me when I needed an ally.
A smile formed at the corner of my lips as I thought about Adrianna and her dramatic headlines, her ruthless pursuit of her own interests … at least my story would be unbiased.
But I don’t even know what the whole story is yet … what did Chrissy mean by those words—good girls lie, and bad girls die, or was it the other way around?
Chapter Seven
Through the window of my office, I watched the sun slowly melt beyond the horizon, casting the field in a hellish, firefly radiance that felt less like a warming sunset and more like a warning glow. This is bad. So bad.
But why do I feel this bubble of rising excitement? Like today is THE day … a defining moment that could change the course of my life…?
I wanted to write a book—not just a one-off bestseller, but something that could breathe life into my writing career that had never lifted off the ground…
But not just that: I wanted answers. What had happened that day in the field? If Chrissy didn’t kill Jenny Juliott, then who did? Am I a fool for considering that she might be telling the truth…?
The glass of whiskey wobbled in my hand as I brought it up to my lips. Knocking it back, I closed my eyes, letting the smoky burn of the Woodford flood my airways and settle hotly in the center of my chest.
But is it worth it? The press and the pressure? The ominous task of getting closer to a potential killer to learn the truth, or at least her version of it? Do I want to know the truth?
Chrissy was gone, our brief first interview concluded hours ago … but part of her still lingered on the other side of my desk: the smell of shampoo and acidic hair dye, the way her personality filled out the entire room when she spoke…
I’d spent the hour jotting down notes. And now, as I gawked at my scratchy writing from earlier, it looked like a nervous splotch of nothingness. Worthless.
In truth, I’d spent most of the hour trying to control my breathing and feigning that I was listening while my heart beat like a wild drum in my chest.
Chrissy showing up at my front door had given me a jolt … is that why she did it? Perhaps catching the media and me by surprise was exactly what she was going for.
She’d made a spectacle of it, riling up the press. Perhaps she’d intended to do that too. But if she’s truly innocent, who could blame her?
I flipped the legal pad over on the desk and poured another glass. I didn’t need my notes to remember … it was all etched in my brain, word after shaky word.
And who the hell is this guy she’s with, Dennis?
I carried the warm, watery glass of whiskey to my room. Shivering, I crawled beneath the covers and drained the rest of it.
I can figure out more tomorrow … for now, I need to sleep because Chrissy will be back…
Dennis Alinsky. Mystery solved.
The clock in the lower-right corner of my computer informed me that it was nearly 4am.
Sleep had eluded me for hours. Finally, I’d given in, emerging from bed and finding my way back to my office. No matter how many times I tried
