But her words were having more of an effect on me than I would have liked to admit. Was I foolish to agree to writing this story? I didn’t want to help Chrissy if that meant hurting Jenny’s family and friends even more than they’d already been hurt…
Did I make a mistake when I let her in?
What was I thinking when I reached out to her in the first place?
But as much as the public wanted to question my competence and motives … I still wanted to hear what Chrissy had to say. Was it morbid curiosity? Maybe.
But it was something else too … something deeper and darker inside me that wanted to understand how someone who lived only a dozen acres away from me could have turned out so differently.
I wanted to dig deeper, truly understand this “monster”, or “boogeyman from my youth” as Sandy Jonas had called her. If she was lying about her innocence, then I’d expose the truth in my book and reveal her as a calculated con-woman in addition to her reputation as a murderer.
And if she’s telling the truth … well, the implications of that would be astronomical. Because if Chrissy didn’t do it, then someone else did. And reaching for the truth might lead me to another suspect … and what if I’m wrong, or worse: what if Chrissy’s lying and this whole thing has the potential to destroy other people’s lives…?
I stood up from my desk and stretched. My head was still swimming from the whiskey earlier; my eyes heavy with sleep and my lower back achy from leaning over during my talk with Chrissy and while scrolling online endlessly for hours.
The sun would be up in a few hours and Chrissy would return. I needed to be ready this time—this is my chance to prove myself and to get to the bottom of the truth.
Chapter Eight
But nine o’clock came and went, and Chrissy never showed. It was impossible to hide my disappointment and restlessness as I glanced through the blinds for the hundredth time, still hoping she might turn up.
I’d expected the media to come again too. But neither Chrissy nor any reporters showed up this morning. Where is everyone?
Finally, as eleven o’clock approached, I took a shower and choked down a tunafish sandwich before heading in for my shift at Kmart. If Chrissy turned up late while I was at work, so be it. She should have been on time.
It was a dreary Saturday, the last of the month. Not a sliver of sun in the sky. Bulgy black storm clouds hovered, following me on my twenty-minute drive to work. Reminding me of the demons Alison Alinsky claimed were following her and her son…
I tried to focus on the monotonous curvy roadways, passing churches and graveyards—it’s all brimstone and death in this town—until I emerged in the center of Austin. But my mind was still on Chrissy. Why didn’t she show like she promised this morning? Did she change her mind? After all of the negative news coverage following her speech yesterday, my own decision had certainly wavered. What if another writer approached her, promising money or offering a more supportive ear?
But I remembered her words from yesterday: who better than me to tell it?
Fat pellets of rain showered down on the car as I parked in my usual spot. Kmart was connected to several other small facilities—Dollar Tree, a rent-by-the-month furniture store, and the food stamp office. For a Saturday, the parking lot was mostly deserted, only a few cars parked out front. One of them, a smart red Firebird, belonged to my boss Shane.
I waited a few minutes, hoping the rain might die down. I didn’t own an umbrella, or a rain jacket for that matter. But when I saw no signs of slowing, I thrust the driver’s side door open and ran across the parking lot, Reeboks squeaking on the grimy pavement.
When it came to my personality and skills, there were many things lacking. But one thing I did have going for me: I was punctual and I liked to think that my loyalty and responsibility helped make up for my lack of people skills.
Shane had never called me his favorite, but it was obvious that I was. He always encouraged my fellow co-workers to imitate my work ethic and this fact didn’t score me any friend points at work.
I shook my long brown hair, goosebumps sprouting as my damp skin came in contact with the air conditioning that always seemed to be running in this place.
Maryann and Sharon were working the two registers in the front. I waved at them and smiled, still shaking water from my hair as I walked to the back of the store to punch my time-card.
Ten years ago, when the farm became mine, I thought this job would be temporary. By now, I should be married with 2.5 kids and a decent job that required a degree … but the mess with Jack had left me frozen in time, a temporary suspension in Austin.
This might be all there ever is, I thought, looking around at the depressing fluorescent lights and the store’s Halloween display.
“Natalie, there you are,” Regina said in her sing-songy voice as I scanned my employee badge and waited for the ding to confirm I was punched in correctly and on time.
I turned around and feigned a smile. “Here I am,” I replied, dully. Regina was kind, but nosey, and she usually only worked a few days a week. I’d heard a rumor that she wanted to go full-time but couldn’t because of my position. She has two kids and really needs the money, Maryann had told me. As though, just because I hadn’t given birth, I didn’t need money to
