A small whoosh of breath escaped from between my lips. As though being told, “Don’t be scared of me” by a convicted killer was any real consolation.
Truth was, I wasn’t so much scared as I was shocked. My brain running twenty paces behind, I couldn’t catch up with what my eyes were seeing.
Like when I’d found Jack… I’d been … frozen. Brain too stunned to absorb the truth, too slow to react.
I cleared my throat. “Ummm … would you like to sit down?” It was someone else’s voice coming out of me, robotic and strange.
“Yes, but can we move away from here?” Chrissy thumbed the front window behind her. The curtains were drawn—they always were—but there were still people outside. Talking. Shouting. Then another bang at the front door.
But that was all background noise. My mind sharpened as I studied Chrissy’s face. I sent her a letter and she came. She actually came to my house…
Her face was tired … and haggard. A web of wrinkles sprouted from her eyes and mouth, and a scar I hadn’t noticed in her picture the other day—a shimmery white line on her left cheek—ran from the bottom of her left eye to the top of her lip line. Did someone cut her in prison?
I’d asked if I could write her story. But I didn’t ask her to show up like this. It seems like a violation—turning up at my front door with no warning, the rabid press trailing behind her … but this is what I wanted, isn’t it?
I thought back to my letter … to me, neatly folding the paper and sliding it in the envelope … to me, slowly and hopefully licking the seal, and carefully filling out the return address when I could have simply left it blank.
You knew what you were doing when you sent it, I told myself. And it’s not like she couldn’t have found out where you lived anyway … a few simple clicks online and we’re all exposed these days.
This was my chance—the one I’d dreamed of for so many years. Access to the story that could change my life. And a chance to hear the truth from her.
But I had to get things off on the right foot … I had to stay professional, in control.
Chrissy was staring, eyes wide and still slightly amused, as she waited for me to move, to react…
“Stay here while I change and brush my teeth. We’ll talk upstairs in my office, if that works for you. Would you like some coffee or tea?”
Chrissy smiled, that sliver of amusement replaced with genuine gratitude. “Yes, please. I’m so out of breath from dealing with those fuckers outside. They followed me the whole way here, from my trailer to your house…”
My heart was drumming in my chest as I made my way through the galley kitchen and down the hall to my room to get changed. She hadn’t even told me which she wanted, coffee or tea, and I had no questions prepared … no clue where to start. And what should I do about the people on my front lawn?
But I needn’t have worried about that—I’d barely slipped into my sweater and leggings when I heard a rush of voices and then Chrissy’s words shouting: “Natalie Breyas is writing my story! The true story about what happened all those years ago. So, if you want to hear what I have to say, then you’ll have to wait to read the book.”
I opened the door to my bedroom, smoothing my hair, body tight with shock all over again. Emerging in the hallway, I saw Chrissy towering in the open front doorway, a flash of reporters splayed before her, like lovesick—or hatesick—fans groveling to get onstage.
A roar of questions erupted, but Chrissy simply raised both arms like Jesus and shouted, “The story of my innocence is coming!”
Chapter Six
“I must admit. I’m pretty shocked you showed up at my house. What made you decide to talk to me?” I asked, a mixed flutter of anxiety and excitement building inside me.
Chrissy Cornwall sat across from me, the cherry oak desktop creating a barrier between us.
“Honestly? Your letter touched me. It didn’t seem judgmental or angry. More like … I don’t know … curious. I’ve wanted to tell my side of the story for a long time now. And I had a feeling you’d contact me one of these days … I wasn’t expecting it to be so soon though.” Chrissy twisted her shiny peach hair in a knot at the base of her skull, fidgeting in her seat.
“Why did you expect me to reach out?” I asked, breathlessly. We didn’t know each other; we’d barely crossed paths at all as children. I hadn’t reached out to her over the years … but why did it feel so right that she knew? Almost like I’ve always expected this moment too.
Chrissy shrugged. “I don’t know. Because it happened here. You were a witness to the fallout, I suppose. More so than any of those assholes outside.”
An odd sense of pride washed over me; I was glad she trusted me enough to talk, after all these years.
“Truth is, nothing about this case has ever sat well with me. It rocked my whole childhood … my entire family, actually…” I admitted.
Chrissy nodded sympathetically, as though she understood what it felt like to be in my shoes. But she doesn’t, I tried to remind myself. She wasn’t around to see the fallout the murder left behind; how the town went to shit, and my mother ran off and left me.
“You are the first person from this town who has expressed interest in hearing my side of the story. And the trial … if you followed it, then you know I didn’t take the stand in my own defense. The version the lawyers gave … well, that was their version of events. By
