My breath lodged in my throat at the mention of Jack. Her question had thrown me.
How is he?
Doesn’t Chrissy know what happened? She’s been in prison, but I know they have TVs in there … surely, she knows the truth about Jack …
“He passed away several years ago. I didn’t realize you knew each other, much. Although I’m not surprised since you all were around the same age.” I swallowed.
I waited for what I knew would come next: I’m sorry for your loss. How did he die? Because let’s face it: when somebody young dies prematurely, we all want to know what happened. And we’re all sorry. So damn sorry.
But Chrissy surprised me by not pushing it further.
“I met him a few times when I went to parties with my brother and with John,” she explained.
The mention of John Bishop also gave me a start. He was the reason Chrissy had killed Jenny—the beginning of the end of everything for both girls. One went to prison for life and the other lost her life … all over a boy.
But, as it turns out, “life in prison” didn’t mean forever. Not in Chrissy’s case.
“Are you okay? You look pale.” Chrissy raised her eyebrows. I was still unnerved by her presence here; and those odd dark brows and the new hair color threw me off.
“May I be frank with you?” I asked.
Honesty. Frankness. Does Chrissy Cornwall understand those concepts, or is she as evil as the media portrayed? I wondered.
Being truthful was risky, but establishing rapport was imperative.
“Yes, please. I’ve always respected people who are forthright. Better that way ’cause then I always know where I stand…” Chrissy leaned forward, placing both hands on the desk. After a few seconds, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was something normal—a conversation between two girl friends over tea.
I said, “I’m completely unprepared for this. And it’s important for you to know that I’ve never been published before. I don’t have an agent or book deal lined up. I’m sure there are other people with more experience and support who could write this book about you. Don’t get me wrong, I want to do it. But I need to be honest. And I’ll need more time to prepare questions and talk to you, and think this through before I start…”
Chrissy waved her hands, lips puckered up in disgust. “I don’t care about money or deals. I just want to tell my side of things for once. And it’s okay if you’re not ready. I did kind of show up on your doorstep out of the blue … sorry about that.”
I nodded. “That’s okay. But coming here … isn’t it strange for you?”
Slowly, I pointed toward the office window, the one facing the field. The blinds were drawn tight, but still … thirty years later, and the gruesome image of Jenny’s corpse lying in the field hadn’t faded. Not for me.
Chrissy glanced toward the window. Thoughtfully, she chewed on her lower lip. It was almost like she’d forgotten … that she didn’t realize she was sitting less than a football field’s distance from where poor little Jenny had lain…
“Sometimes when I look out there, it’s like I still expect to see her … her body … well, I guess you know,” I said.
Nervously, I averted my eyes from hers, softly reaching over to brush my fingertips on a silver letter opener. If she had wanted to, Chrissy could have snatched it up and slit my throat the moment we entered this room. For the first time, reality set in … I’m alone in my house with a killer. Sure, there’s news media outside, but no one is here to save me.
Daddy had owned several rifles and pistols, but I didn’t have them anymore. Not after what happened with Jack…
But for some strange reason, I didn’t feel afraid. Chrissy seemed genuine and … non-threatening.
Chrissy’s eyes moved from the window, down to the opener I was touching, then back up at me. For a moment, I was convinced that she could read my thoughts, fears reading out like a teleprompter in front of my face…
“It must have been hard for you, growing up here after what happened.”
“It was strange, to say the least,” I replied.
“And your folks are the ones who found the body, right? I mean … I know they are because I read through the police notes a million times and I saw both of them at the trial. Was that stressful for you?” Chrissy asked.
Why does it feel like I’m the one being interviewed, all of a sudden?
“Yeah. I was nine at the time. My parents actually tried to keep me locked away in my room while the police investigated. But I saw the body … I saw Jenny that day.”
“Jenny…” Chrissy said, her eyes watery and distant.
Her eyes glazed over; it was like she was seeing something beyond my vision. I waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t.
Does she feel remorseful? Is she thinking about the poor girl she supposedly killed that day?
But my thoughts circled back to that speech she’d made to the reporters…
“What you said earlier about being innocent … is that true?”
Chrissy’s focus was back, her eyes zeroed in on mine like two tiny black beads. For a flicker of a second, I thought I saw fury behind them.
“That’s why I said yes to your letter. Why I’m saying yes to you now … because if anyone knows the details of this case and knows the story … it’s you. If I can convince you of my innocence, then maybe I can convince the world. And I feel like you deserve to hear it after all these years, considering you were around to experience it at the time.”
I didn’t expect this interview to happen and I certainly never, in a million years, would have expected her to deny her crimes. I cleared my throat and kept my voice even, unsure what
