It was Thursday, which meant I had the day off (a pretty shitty day to have off, I admit), but I was up early anyway.
No matter how late my mother stayed up at night, she always rose for the day by 5am. As a kid, her early-morning antics had irritated me no end—on weekends, I’d tried to sleep in, but then I’d hear her: banging pots in the kitchen, boiling tea by the light of the moon.
One time I asked her why she did it—what is the point of it all?
“I used to sleep in like you do, but then I realized that I feel better about myself when I wake up early. There’s no guilt, and it makes for a good night’s rest.”
At the time, it sounded stupid.
But as an adult, I understood.
There is nothing worse than lying in bed at night with regrets and getting up early to accomplish everything I need to do reduces that slightly.
I munched my toast, ate a spoonful of eggs, then chugged half a cup of coffee. There was a list of things I needed to do—grocery shopping, laundry, etc.
But all I could think about was Chrissy Cornwall.
Could it be true?
When they sentenced her to life, we all assumed that meant she would stay in prison for “life”.
I understood why Mike was angry; he had every right to be. And the other people … well, most of the townsfolk had children, and I could understand why they didn’t want a murderer in town.
But my heart was in knots about it, my feelings mixed. Chrissy was fifteen when she got locked up. That must make her, what? Forty-five or forty-six?
Thinking back to who I was at fifteen versus who I was now … so many things had changed.
But at the same time, nothing has.
I was still the same girl deep inside, only now my mousy brown hair was streaked with gray, my face a spider web of wrinkles and broken blood vessels.
And as I looked around the same dingy kitchen from my childhood, with its peeling daisy wallpaper and cock-a-doodle-doo plaques on the wall … I felt more certain than ever that time was standing still.
I’m still here. Still me. I never thought I would be stuck in the same place, but I am. And if I haven’t changed much, has Chrissy? Do any of us … really?
I left as soon as I had the chance, right after my high school graduation. I had big dreams of going to college and becoming a writer, and I fulfilled one of those—I worked a tough package-handling job that helped pay for my tiny apartment and covered the school expenses that my student loans didn’t. I sacrificed my social life and moved to a college town in neighboring Kentucky where I had no family, no friends… I thought I’d have plenty of time for the fun stuff after college. But then Jack happened and somehow, I was back where I started—doing nothing with my degree, and just as lonely (if not more) here than I ever had been.
Yes, I had changed. It was hard not to after all that I’d gone through. And for the sake of Austin, I hoped Chrissy had changed too.
If she was really coming home, the town would be buzzing with it soon.
They already are, I realized, circling back to those ghoulish faces I’d seen in the field last night.
I scrubbed my dish and fork with soap and water, then left them to dry in the sink. Taking my coffee with me, I trudged up the stairs to my office. It had been so long since I’d turned on my computer, since I’d felt the punchy feel of my keys.
I missed writing. But mostly, I missed the hope I’d held onto for so long—that one day I’d produce a great book. I wrote every night in my little apartment in Kentucky, mostly fiction—in the small gaps of time between work and school. I’d tried pitching some of my ideas to small publishers and agents, but without any luck.
Since coming home ten years ago, I’d been unable to write much of anything. Austin was, essentially, uninspiring.
My fingers glided effortlessly across the keyboard, typing Chrissy’s name in the Google search bar. I shivered despite the heat of my coffee—is the furnace going out? Why is it so damn cold in October?
It had been years since I’d checked up on Chrissy or researched the Juliott murder. As a teen and young adult, I’d been obsessed, and the invention of the internet had been both a blessing and a curse—it provided a wider window for my obsession and provided access to the horrors I’d tried—and failed—to forget.
The crime scene photos online were eerie. Some fake, but most of them real. And like the photos, the stories were a mix—conspiracy theories, repetitive summaries of the case. Podcasts and articles were helpful, and addictive, but the story was too complex for a six-paragraph op-ed.
It’s not like the story hadn’t been written—it had: twice. Little Angel in the Field and Evil in Austin had flown off the shelves. I’d dreamed of writing the story myself—who better than me?—but I’d never been able to get past the first few pages. After all, everything had already been written… What more do I have to add to the discussion? And what do I really know about writing true crime?
Several news articles filled my screen: the headline Child Killer Released caught my eye immediately.
Child Killer Released. It wasn’t a lie exactly—but it was a double entendre. Yes, Chrissy had murdered a kid—but what the headline failed to capture was the fact that she had been a kid herself when she did it. Did the person writing this intend for the reader to feel confused? Is Chrissy a child killer, or a child who killed? She’s both, I reminded myself. Both.
I scrolled and scrolled, reading more: Jenny Juliott’s Killer Released from Indiana Women’s Prison. I focused on another article instead, one with a
