She Lied She Died Carissa Lynch (best beach reads of all time TXT) 📖

reading true life crime stories, sometimes the most obvious explanation was the right one. Chrissy did seem to be the only one back then with a motive.

And don’t forget the confession, I reminded myself, warily.

I flipped through a few more photos, unable to shake off the feeling that they could be my very own … a young happy family doing what young happy families do … birthday parties and Easter. The kids at Christmas, huddled around the tree on their knees, grinning at boxes with bows, while the adults smiled jovially on the couch.

Carefully, I stacked the delicate old photos and slid them back inside their envelope and took a deep breath. It was strange seeing Chrissy in her family element; there had been hundreds of photos of her over the years in the paper and on the internet, but they had been mostly photos of her as a teen and adult. Seeing her real life felt like something different … she looked so young and normal.

And her family photos brought back an aching want for my own. Mine weren’t lost, merely stored away—there were two plastic tubs filled with my own family’s albums and loose photos in the cellar of the farmhouse. I had looked at them only once since moving back home—but I didn’t look for long, and I hadn’t looked since.

Did we look as happy as the Cornwalls did in their photos? And most importantly: could you tell a difference between before and after … before the dead girl showed up in our field, and after we found her?

Dad had grown distant and quieter. Jack immersed himself in his own little world in his room. And Mom… When I closed my eyes, I could still see her, locket swinging around her neck as she chased me through the rows of corn. Hair silver like the moon.

We were happy once. All of us. But then everything fell apart…

Dad buried his feelings and Mom ran away with hers … and Jack … well, Jack stayed busy, but perhaps … perhaps it all caught up with him in the end. How much of his suicide is related to the past? Perhaps, like me, he never fully recovered from the tragedy and Mom leaving…

When I opened my eyes, refocusing on Chrissy’s box, a cold chill ran up my spine. I tucked my hands in my long robe sleeves, using them as gloves to handle the rest of the contents of the box.

Something more interesting was tucked beneath the photos … three handwritten notes, each meticulously folded in that playful, old-school way that made my heart throb with nostalgia. I used to be able to do it, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember how.

Slowly, I untucked the corners and carefully unraveled the first one. The letter was written on notebook paper, the scratchy print letters immediately reminding me of a guy’s handwriting, not a girl’s.

My Dear Sweet Chrissy,

I can still taste that minty Chapstick you were wearing on your lips last Saturday. I miss you. I told you to call me. Why haven’t you? I know you said I’m not you’re type, but guess what? You’re not my type either. Maybe that’s why we are perfect together. Like that couple, Romeo and Juliet. Please come this weekend. I want to be alone with you.

Love always,

John

The second note was folded more tightly. The paper felt dusty and thin between my fingers, as though it might fall away at any moment, evaporating into dust. Taking its precious words with it…

This one was written in sloppy cursive.

CHRISSY,

Come on. Sneak out and meet me tonight. Let’s have our own party, beautiful. —J

Carefully, I plucked up the last letter and untucked the folded edges. The handwriting in this one was neater … and strangely, more feminine.

Blinking sleep from my eyes, I read through the lines several times then placed all three letters neatly back in the box. There was more inside … an Austin Elementary School yearbook, some more loose photos…

I’ll look at it all more thoroughly tomorrow, I decided. My eyes were heavy with sleep and I closed the lid on the box and carried it back to my room. Giving it one last rueful glance, I placed it beside my bed on the nightstand.

My bed still unmade from this morning, I nudged the covers aside and lay down on top of the sheets. The house was still chilly, the robe strangely constricting … yet I was too tired to take it off.

Eyes closed, my mind swirled with thoughts … mostly, they were stuck on the contents of that third letter. Something about those words had chilled me to the bone. Was Jenny the one who sent it?

Chrissy—

I heard about what happened and please let me say: I’m not angry with you. It’s not your fault and I don’t blame you. The person at fault is John. Thank you for telling me the truth and being honest. I’m going to confront him about it tomorrow.

JJ

Chapter Ten

When I opened my eyes, my body was shaking. At first, I presumed it was from the cold … the heater still barely putting off any heat. But then I realized … I was sweating. Remnants of a dream slivered through my mind, snaking their way back out … too fast. Always too fast to hold onto…

I glanced over at the closed blinds, surprised to find darkness seeping through the cracks. Although I liked to get up early, I rarely rose before the sun.

Blinking, I rolled over onto my side and reached for my phone. I usually kept it on the nightstand, but now there was only the crumbling shoe box that Chrissy had given me last night.

I groaned. Untwisted myself from the sheets.

As I stumbled through the hallway and toward the kitchen, in search of my cell phone, it dawned on me that it wasn’t morning. When I reached the kitchen, the angry red numbers on the stove told