She Lied She Died by Carissa Lynch (book recommendations for young adults txt) 📕

need to let loose all my hot wet tears leaving me breathless. There was a knot in my throat, thickening by the second. I have to get out of here. NOW.

Regina was still in the break room, sweeping up an invisible pile of dirt. She was humming, a tiny smile forming at the corners of her lips.

I’m sure Regina will be more than willing to cover my shifts for me.

I held my head down as I grabbed my things from my locker and went back outside, a gush of wind and crispy dead leaves pinwheeling around me as I crossed the parking lot.

The media wasn’t outside, and I probably won’t even see Chrissy again! And now I have to spend two weeks, unpaid, off work because of this bogus bullshit. And why didn’t she show up this morning?! I need this fucking job…

Twenty minutes later, I was back at the farm. I threw my purse and windbreaker on the sofa then charged up the stairs to my office.

What am I going to do all week, now that I’m off work and Chrissy changed her mind? Maybe if I make a public statement—that I’m not writing the book—they’ll let me come back to work and earn my paycheck…

My computer screen was lit up, my email open. I narrowed my eyes at it. What the hell? I thought I shut the computer down this morning before I left.

I was usually so good about logging out and shutting it down, doing it most evenings as though on auto-pilot.

I glanced around my office, a strange wisp of paranoia settling in. Did someone break in, go through my emails…?

But as my eyes scanned the room, I couldn’t see anything out of place. No one had rummaged through my desk or closet … nothing was out of the ordinary, besides the lit-up computer screen.

I did a quick walk through the rest of the second-floor rooms, feeling strangely foolish.

I must have left it on or accidentally hit restart. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done that. Plus, I was pretty distracted and hung over this morning.

I took a seat in the soft leather desk chair, my eyes scanning through emails, only briefly registering advertisements and social media notifications. I stopped on an unopened email that looked like it had come from a personal account: scapegoat227 at yahoo.

The subject line had been left blank.

Scapegoat. Is that what she thinks she is? But … a scapegoat for who?

I clicked on the email, noting that it had arrived at 7:30 this morning.

Hi Natalie,

I don’t know much about email but here is mine. Can’t meet you this morning. There are a dozen reporters camped outside and most have been here all night. Can we meet tonight instead? I was thinking you could come here. Are you cool with that? Dennis works 3rd shift so we can get some quiet time to do the interview. Can you come around 11pm?

C

Eleven o’clock at night? I mean, it’s not like I had to work tonight, but I wasn’t sure how I felt about meeting on Chrissy’s own turf … and that late at night. Would it be safe there?

There was no point in mulling it over—my mind was already made up. I wrote her back, keeping my message brief:

See you at 11.

Compared to the sanctuary of my family farm, Dennis’s trailer looked downright desolate. It was silent and dark; a rusty old double-wide with a broken-down Chrysler parked haphazardly in the grass out front. It was a secluded lot, set back from the road and surrounded by trees on all sides. I looked around for a motorcycle but didn’t see one.

The gravel driveway was empty of cars; no media around, much to my relief.

I wonder how she got the media to leave. Maybe, hopefully, they gave up for the night … thinking Dennis was gone and that Chrissy had gone to bed.

I pulled into the gravel drive, my heart in my throat as the tires spun, kicking up gravel and dust. I took a deep breath and forced myself to get out of the car. Was coming here a mistake?

I kept my eyes on the trailer as I went around to the passenger side of my car and scooped up my heavy bag of notes, tape recorder, and the letter opener (just in case), which I tucked in my back jeans pocket.

I swung the bag over my right shoulder and followed a rickety wheelchair ramp up to the front door. As I approached, I could see two soft lights glowing from inside.

I raised my hand to knock just as the door swung open.

Chrissy stood in the dimly lit doorway; hair piled messily in a bun on top of her head. She looked … sleepy.

“Should I come back or…?” My throat was dry, tongue like sandpaper sticking to the roof of my mouth. I chastised myself for not bringing along a bottle of water or breath mints.

“No, of course not. Get in here,” Chrissy barked. She shoved the screen wider, looking past me toward the empty driveway and road beyond.

As soon as I was inside, she closed and bolted the door behind me.

“Fooled them, didn’t we?” she said with a chuckle.

“Who? The media?”

“Who else? Those pestering assholes didn’t expect you to come here. And the house has been pitch dark for hours. They finally pulled out about an hour ago. I was worried I’d have to cancel on you again. Come on…” As I followed Chrissy through a dark living room and through an archway into a cramped eat-in kitchen, I couldn’t help noticing how nice the interior of the trailer was. Sure, it was old and sparse, but it looked clean and well taken care of. The sink and counters were sparkling, the couch and armchair in the living room worn but cared-for.

Chrissy settled into a seat at the table, nodding for me to take a seat too.

“I brought a tape recorder. Is that okay? It’s to