It was hard to separate the Chrissy now from the Chrissy in the stories. She didn’t seem dangerous to me, but how could I know for sure?
When she returned, Chrissy was carrying a crusty old shoebox. “Don’t lose any of this, okay? I’ve been saving this stuff forever.”
I took the box from her hands. I was tempted to lift the lid but didn’t.
“Okay. Talk to you tomorrow,” I said.
I saw myself out, watching from my seat in the driveway as all the lights in the trailer dimmed, one by one. The box was on the passenger seat, calling my name. Perhaps there would be some good bits and pieces I could use in my interview, or even pics I could include inside the book.
As I drove home, listening to sad songs on the radio, I was smiling despite myself. My thoughts were swirling with visions of my future book. Could I do it? Turn out a real, readable story about the murder of Jenny Juliott? I imagined what it would look like—bold, catchy title on the front and glossy, never-before-seen photos on the inside…
As much as I wanted to indulge in my fantasy of seeing a book with my name on it, what I wanted more than anything right now was answers. More than answers … I wanted the truth.
Chapter Nine
The wind was vicious as I climbed out of my car, gripping my keys in one hand and balancing the old shoe box in the other. From the gravel drive, the farmhouse looked sad and abandoned. I’d forgotten to flip the porch light on when I’d left in a hurry; it looked silent and dark, an empty house in an empty field under a sad, empty night sky.
The only light to guide my path to the front door was the cold white moon hovering above the field.
Once upon a time, the field had been teeming with crops and farm equipment. The bright red pole barn, where my dad used to spend so much of his free time, was lopsided and streaked with mold. My brother had lain new gravel inside it, but it was rickety and swaying … the whole thing needed new paint, new walls … or maybe it just needed to be torn down completely. It wasn’t like I used it anymore.
The field stretched on and on, the grass overgrown but dried out, the split-level fence swaying dangerously in the wind. The farm was a forgotten wasteland. In the distance, trees formed a line between our property and that of the Cornwalls. Only the Cornwalls had been gone for many years now, the old trailer empty and ghostlike, hidden beyond the trees.
The trees, too, swayed dangerously in the breeze, their branches reaching like gnarly old hands … reaching for me, accusing me. How could you help this woman?
I stumbled up to the front porch, teeth chattering from the cold, and after a few tries, I was able to slip my key in correctly and let myself inside.
I flipped on switches in the living room and kitchen, setting the place aglow, chasing away faceless ghosts…
I dropped the shoe box on the kitchen table, giving it one last leery look before trotting to my bedroom to fetch my robe. The inside of the farmhouse wasn’t much warmer than the cold elements outside. I checked the thermostat. Barely sixty.
Damn heater’s going out again.
In my bedroom, I slipped on my ratty black robe that used to be Dad’s. It was motheaten and frayed, but it was thick, warm, and comforting. I need that now.
I twisted my hair in a tight knot on top of my head and returned to the box in the kitchen. I had an idea of what might be inside—photos, probably—or perhaps court documents that Chrissy had saved.
The clock on the stove revealed it was almost one in the morning, but I couldn’t sleep without taking a look. I took a seat and peeled back the lid, instantly hit by the smell of something dusty and sweet, like old fruit.
The first thing I saw was an envelope, unlabeled. After peeking under the fold, I realized I was right about one thing—these were definitely pictures. Nearly a dozen old polaroids were tucked inside the envelope. Gently, I removed the stack then spread the photos out like a fan across my kitchen table.
The first photo was of a girl, barely five or six. I recognized her immediately. Lips as pale as her skin, she was wearing a tired smile, the gap between her front teeth already prominent.
The photo of Chrissy was old, the details of her face pixelated and dull. But there was an eerie stillness to it; and I thought to myself: this photo would look great in the mid-section of my book when it’s done.
But there was something else too—the innocence of her smile, the wide-eyed excitement in her eyes. Chrissy had been a little girl just like me, poor but full of promise. How did it all go wrong?
That was the only picture of Chrissy by herself … the rest were of various family members—Trevor and Trent, I presumed—a young dark-haired toddler and another boy with dark hair who was only six or seven. And then there were two of the entire family—Ruby and Alec Cornwall, with a boy on either side of them, and a plump-faced infant in an old-fashioned dress and bonnet ensemble on Ruby’s lap. I stared at the bright eyes and playful smile … it’s hard to imagine that someone so innocent, so sweet, could commit such a heinous act. It might have been cut and dried for the rest of Austin, but I always felt like there was so much more… Maybe it’s because I was so young and didn’t get all the details, but it felt like there was something missing.
Chrissy was so young and innocent; the perfect scapegoat for the crime.
But, as I knew from
