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

room to the master. It seemed childish—staying in his old room all this time.

I stepped into the doorway, smiling big … all my molars showing. But my temporary glee melted instantly.

Because this wasn’t how I expected to find him.

‘Sweet and Low’ by Augustana was playing on the radio downstairs. I’ll never forget that song. Dad’s old shotgun lay next to him on the floor.

I fell to the floor beside him, trying to resuscitate him … although I knew. I knew he was gone long before I’d arrived.

Because at the top of his head, that messy tuft of hair I used to tug on, was a hole so big that I could have fit my fist inside it.

Chapter Fifteen

As I slammed the door of the car and wedged the shifter in gear, I couldn’t get my mind off Jack. Off that night, ten years ago … when all my future plans changed. When I lost the only family I had left. And the way he did it … that jagged red hole at the top of his skull, bits of bone and brain matter splattered on the carpet and walls…

I thought about my “office” now, the slick gray coat of paint, the furniture replaced, the carpet removed and restored to its original pine heart flooring … but it was still Jack’s room. It would always be his room. The room he laid his head in for all those years; and the room where he blew it apart.

He left no note. No explanation. Not even a clue on his mobile or email accounts.

Why didn’t he call me? Why didn’t he reach out for help?

But that nasty, unforgiving voice inside me reminded me as it always did: maybe he wouldn’t have done it if you’d hadn’t moved away. Or if you’d gone to visit more often…

Jack had struggled with depression. That was no secret. But I had depression, too. When does the line between depression cross into complete desperation, with no will to live?

But then that voice again: Don’t pretend you haven’t considered it either.

After he died, I thought I wouldn’t be able to stay. The farm was mine, after all. Mom out there living her new life and Dad dead and buried in the ground. There was no one left to take it but me after Jack died.

But instead of being unable to stay, I found that I could not leave.

I felt, somehow, that I owed it to Jack to be there.

Did you know something about Jenny’s death? Is that why you did it? Or was it just too depressing to be in that house, after losing Dad and Mom leaving, and the tragedy that occurred there, Jack…?

Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a chance to ask him all those questions now.

I’d gotten rid of Dad’s guns and had the room cleaned and redone. I’d tried to whisk away the bad memories of his suicide and hold onto the ones before … the ones of us as children. We were close, almost too close, in that way some siblings are. We could get along better than anyone, but at the same time … we could go from zero to sixty and be at each other’s throats for the dumbest things.

Oh, how I wish I could change it, Jack.

All the games—the hide and seek, the make-believe worlds we’d created, the treasures we’d looked for—those were the good times. The times I want to hold on to. But, in my mind, I still saw what he looked like there on the floor … I could never forget that version of him. The broken brother I couldn’t save.

I couldn’t face the bustle of in-town traffic, or the prospect of driving by Kmart. But I couldn’t go home either … I wasn’t ready to return to my empty tomb just yet.

Residential homes faded away, the familiar fields returning and blurring by in my periphery. Trees, so many trees … there were so many places the killer could have dumped Jenny’s body. Why the farm? And why did Katie Juliott mention my brother? Was she simply confused…? Mixing up my brother with John Bishop?

Of course Jack knew Jenny. They went to school together.

But, as far as I knew, Jack ran around in different circles—band members and goth kids and the quiet ones. Those were Jack’s people.

And he hadn’t even been in Austin when Jenny died. When he’d returned and heard the news of Jenny’s death, he hadn’t seemed upset. Just shocked, like the rest of us.

I didn’t realize where I was going until I made a sharp right on Wilson Lane then a left on Willow Run. I have to talk to Chrissy. I need to ask her what she knows about Jack…

Dennis’s truck was parked in the driveway, impulsively crooked, like he’d turned up in a hurry. As I parked directly behind him, I was thankful the press was gone. Are they finally getting bored with this? I hope so, I thought, dully.

Showing up uninvited at Dennis’s trailer was risky at worst, rude at best. But it’s not like Chrissy hadn’t done the same thing to me a few days ago…

I left my satchel on the passenger’s seat and turned the engine off. Slowly, I approached the trailer. It was two in the afternoon; too late for most people to be sleeping, but Chrissy had said Dennis worked third shift.

I’d barely made it to the porch ramp when I heard the sound of glass breaking, coming from inside the trailer.

“Oh, fuck you, Dennis! Keep your damn hands off me. I mean it!”

I froze, my foot resting on the first porch step. Should I call the police, or just leave?

“What are ya gonna do? Call the cops, bitch? They’d probably come in and whack ya themselves,” Dennis screamed.

There was a loud thump and a muffled cry, followed by the sounds of grunts and groans inside.

I darted up the rest of the steps, banging both my fists on the screen door.

Immediately, things on the other side