My truth … the truth of my family’s lies … has created its own little prison inside me. I set out to write a book, Chrissy’s biography and detailed version of her crime. Instead, it turned out to be a memoir—the story of my own family’s legacy, and how little white lies evolved into a decades-long web of suffering.
It’s no longer her story to tell. It’s mine.
I ask Chrissy often: when are you going to sue the state for sending you to prison when you were innocent?
She always counters with: when are you going to write that book?
That shuts me up really quick.
Because the truth is, I could write the story and people would probably read it. There will always be people who need to hear the details of other people’s pain, and I can’t say I blame them. I’ve had offers from other writers to do it, asking if they can write my family’s story…
But, for some reason, I keep telling them no.
Because that’s the thing about the truth: it’s harder to tell than lies. Especially when it’s an ugly truth like mine.
It’s not that I don’t love writing. I still want to write a book someday. But I’m thinking about something fun—maybe a rom-com or a western.
Something so far from the truth that I can almost believe the lie.
Once again, the Breyas farm is littered with pieces of crime tape. Only this time they’re on the inside as well as the out. The blood inside the barn was too degraded for DNA testing, but luminol revealed a gory scene on the walls of the barn.
I’d like to say my mother was doing what she had to, protecting her own … but now I’m questioning everything about who she was … who they all were.
The knife she used to kill Jenny Juliott was buried in the trunk alongside her. I’d hoped for more … a note from Jack inside her tomb, some type of explanation…
But his suicide spoke for itself—he killed our mother when he learned the truth, but he never recovered from his own monstrous actions.
Lane was arrested on a sunny Sunday afternoon for her role in the murder. She may not have been directly involved in the killings, but she was responsible for covering them up. I doubt she’ll get much time because of her age, but it only seems fair to Jenny’s family that she answer for her role in the murder.
The townspeople flock to Chrissy now, eager to give their condolences. Their “I always suspected you didn’t do it” pats on the back. And the town is coming alive again, the old fears subsiding, as though there’s no longer evil in the world now that my mother and brother are dead.
Now I’m the leper, crowds of people parting like the Red Sea when they see me coming. I don’t think they blame me, exactly, but I think I make them uncomfortable. Surprisingly, Adrianna has been one of my biggest supporters, offering me a place to stay while the cops tore the farm apart.
I considered burying Mom next to Dad and Jack in the family plot. But doing that felt wrong. She’d spent enough time underground … I wanted her to soar for a while. She was cremated, her ashes tossed off the bridge over the Ohio River, a place she took me fishing once. It was a lovely day and although we hadn’t caught anything, it was one of the best days of my life. I hope it was one of hers too.
Her body was so badly decomposed that the cause of death was undetermined. I hope that however he did it, it was quick and painless. I hope she didn’t see it coming. Even though she did a terrible thing, I miss her. Somehow, knowing the truth—that she was a killer—hurts less than the thought that she abandoned me. Which is really fucked up, I know.
There are days when I wish I had never sent that letter to Chrissy. That I never would have unearthed these ugly old truths … but now that feeling inside me—the one that always felt so unresolved—has faded. The truth might be its own version of prison, but at least I know the walls … there’s no more baggage left hanging, nothing unresolved to deal with.
When I went away to college, I was focused on the future. And in Austin, I was firmly stuck in the past.
Now all I want to do is start over, in a town where no one knows my name, and keep my feet firmly planted in the present.
I accepted a job at a bookstore in West Virginia—the pay is shit but the store looks amazing, and there’s a cute little apartment complex nearby. I’ve never seen the mountains, but I want to.
Unlike me, Chrissy has decided to stay in Austin after all. So, she is staying and I’m going—a strange ending to it all, I guess.
But there’s something thrilling about untangling myself from those deadly roots, letting myself go free…
Chrissy promised to stay in touch. I made no promises in return.
And Officer Nash, one of the few other people in town who has stood by me, has asked if he can come visit me some time in West Virginia. I told him that I would like that, but again, no promises made.
I left town with very little on a Wednesday afternoon. A tiny pack of clothes and toiletries. My car. Some cash I made from selling the farm.
And my mother’s locket around my neck; a picture of me on one side, my brother Jack on the other.
For a while, we had it all. Before lies tore us apart…
When I get to West Virginia, I’ll still be myself. Mostly. My personality will stay the same but I’m changing my name.
One last little white lie won’t kill me—hopefully.
THE END
Don’t miss Whisper Island, the next unputdownable thriller by Carissa Ann Lynch…
It was the perfect place to escape to.
