Now Jenny’s mom was skin and bones, her eyes vacant. Lost.
But there was beauty in the way she moved … as though beauty and tragedy were intertwined, one impossible without the other…
“I was just cooking supper. Here’s your plate, dear.”
I was sitting on a bar stool at the breakfast counter, watching Jenny’s frail mother move around the kitchen noiselessly, ghostlike.
Supper? It’s barely noon.
And she still hadn’t asked me what I was doing here… Maybe she thinks I’m someone else. Maybe she doesn’t know I’m interviewing her daughter’s supposed murderer for a story.
“Thank you,” I said, as Katie slid a ceramic plate filled with food in front of me. The scent of tomato and cheese filled the room and my belly grumbled. There was a large square of lasagna on one side and a pile of chips and salsa on the other. A weird combination, but I didn’t want to be rude, and truthfully, it all smelled delightful.
I plucked up a chip and dipped it in the thick red salsa.
“I made those chips myself,” Katie said, proudly. She smiled for the first time, her face coming alive with it.
The chip was deliciously crisp and the salsa oddly sweet and savory. I closed my eyes, relishing the bite. I hadn’t realized until this very moment… I’d been running on coffee and adrenaline for days.
Katie was still watching me, so I scooped up a hearty bite of lasagna. Unlike the salsa, the lasagna wasn’t quite right—the noodles felt too hard, the meat slightly… raw.
As Katie turned toward the stove, I spit the hunk of beef in my hand—it was cold and pink—and I slid it under a slippery noodle to hide it.
Is she trying to poison me?
But I knew that was a ridiculous thought. Nash had warned me, when I told him I might visit as suggested, that Katie had Alzheimer’s and her lucidity came and went.
“Mrs. Juliott, I came to ask you a few questions about Jenny. Would that be all right?”
She was standing at the stove top, back turned to me, slowly scrubbing one of the burners with a rag. She stopped and turned, her eyes focusing in on mine for the first time since my arrival.
“You’re going to write it, aren’t you?”
The directness of her stare and question sent a nervous wave of nausea through my stomach.
“I’m not sure yet. I’m just hearing what she has to say. I don’t see any reason to repeat what’s already been said over the years. And I don’t intend to cause any pain or discomfort for—”
Katie lifted one hand to stop me.
She walked over and looked at the plate in front of me, brow furrowing, then whisked it away before I could reach for another bite.
“Thank you for the food. It was delicious. I’m just not very hungry…” My belly rumbled noisily, betraying me.
Katie dropped the plate in the sink, food and all. I flinched at the ear-splitting clank.
“I have early-onset Alzheimer’s. I almost wish I didn’t have these moments … these moments when I realize what’s happening.”
“I’m so sorry,” I mumbled, because I didn’t know what else to say. She had to be … I tried to do the math quickly. Katie was older than my mother back then … so, she had to be around seventy now.
Her withdrawn face and fragile frame made her look older than seventy though.
“Wait right here. I want to show you something while my head is on straight.”
As Katie wandered out of the room, I looked around the kitchen for any signs of Jenny. This was the house she grew up in, in a neighborhood much different than mine. The houses here were old but mid-sized with small backyards, your quintessential middle-class family.
As Katie returned, I rose to help her—she was carrying two heavy books that appeared to be photo albums. My heart fell at the sight of them.
I wasn’t opposed to looking at photos of Jenny, but I’d seen a lot of her school pics online, and what I really wanted to discuss was Chrissy.
“Over here,” Katie motioned, leading me to a large dining area adjacent to the kitchen.
The table was massive, enough to seat eight people. My thoughts fluttered back to Jenny’s brother. Does he still live here? And if so, how would he feel about me coming over, asking his sick mother questions? I cringed at the thought, hoping Mike didn’t show.
I took a seat beside Katie and watched her bird-like hands as they lifted the leather cover. The first photo was of Jenny. She was young, probably five or six in the photo. This wasn’t one I’d seen before.
She was wearing a frilly white dress that summer, her stubby legs and feet ridiculously cute in her mother’s heels. And to top it all off, there was a cowboy hat on her head, the bill so big it was hiding most of her eyes and nose. She looked so normal … so happy.
Katie reached over to turn the page, and the next thing I knew I was getting flooded by a barrage of pictures—Jenny in a tiger swimsuit on the beach, tummy round and cheeks warm from the sun. Jenny with a fishing pole, standing next to an older boy with long, tan legs and matching hair. Jenny cradled in her mother’s arms, chubby and soft as goo on the day she was born…
Seeing her this way filled me with an odd sensation. A realization. Jenny Juliott wasn’t “the dead girl” or a case to be remembered … she was a real girl. Someone’s sister. Someone’s daughter.
For the first time, I wondered—really wondered: what did it feel like when it happened? Did she feel the life being sucked out of her second by second…? Did she see it coming? Did she know who her killer was? Was she staring in her killer’s eyes before they fluttered shut for all time? And most importantly: was it Chrissy’s eyes she saw that day when she
