“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
