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

the bedroom door, I took a deep breath then I slowly unfastened the lock.

I opened the door a gap, peering out with one eye. The hallway was dark and quiet—did I turn out the hall light last night, or did someone else do it? I wondered, my throat constricting.

For a brief moment, I almost believed that I’d imagined the sound below.

But then I heard another clank and I leapt back from the door, clutching my chest in horror.

Despite my fear, there was something else growing inside of me … anger. How dare someone make me feel afraid in my own home?

Could it be those teenage girls again, playing more pranks to try and scare me?

Determined, I thrust the door open and stepped out into the hall. It was dark, but there was a beam of light shining from the stove top in the kitchen.

The hallway was empty.

I tiptoed down the hall and through the kitchen. The door to the basement was right there, in between the living room and kitchen. It was usually kept closed up tight, but now it was ajar.

Impulsively, I grabbed a bread knife from the counter and gripped it stiffly in my palm.

I opened the door and shouted, “Who’s down there?” My voice not my own, thick with fear and something else … adrenaline.

With the knife held out in front of me like a shield, I took two nervous steps down into the dark hole.

“I’ve called the police! Who’s down there?” I bellowed.

I nearly fell back on my haunches as a moon-white face emerged at the bottom of the stone staircase and stared up wearily at me.

“It’s only me,” Chrissy said. “Your pilot light went out. Heat’s not working. I was trying to fix it for you.”

There was a grill lighter in one of her hands and a screwdriver in the other.

Her eyes traveled from my face to my hand, widening as she saw the knife.

“What’s that for?”

“Why didn’t you wake me up? I heard something … I thought…”

Chrissy frowned. “I tried. Your door was locked.”

She tried to open the door to my room?

I lowered the knife, but kept it tucked close to my side. Nervously, I climbed down the stairs to meet her.

One dusty yellow bulb was lit, illuminating my washer and dryer, and the furnace.

And the plastic tubs of family photos and documents. Immediately, I noticed that the lids were gone from two of them—did I do that when I came down here months ago, or was she snooping through my stuff?

“I’m sorry if I scared you,” Chrissy said.

“I wasn’t scared.” I moved past her to get a better look at the tubs. The lids were lying on the floor a couple of feet away. She was definitely snooping.

“No offense, but you’re holding a knife. I think I scared you, and I’m truly sorry. Can you set that down, please?”

She was so close to me; I could still smell last night’s whiskey on her breath. Her hair was disheveled. Her clothes the same, wrinkled outfit from the night before.

“You know how to fix a furnace?” I asked, finally resting the knife on top of the dryer.

“Somewhat. But I think it’s just the pilot light. I had to light ours all the time in the trailer when I was a kid.”

I tried to imagine Chrissy, a young child, fiddling with the gas on her furnace. It made me sad. She hadn’t lived an easy life, not as a kid or an adult.

In the cavernous cellar, yellow light cast strange reflections off her new hair color. Combined with the sickly glow of the room, the color resembled that of a bruised apple.

I took a seat on the bottom stair, probably coating my sweatpants in mold and dust, but I didn’t care. I felt tired and wiry.

As I watched Chrissy kneel on the floor in front of the furnace, I shivered. It was so cold down here, my breath forming icy puffs in the air.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” My teeth chattered uncontrollably.

“I think…” she muttered, turning a switch and lifting the lighter to ignite the pilot light. “There we go. It’s lit now. Hopefully it stays on this time.” She remained there for another minute, holding the button and examining the tiny orange flame inside it. Then she replaced the panel, as though she’d done it a million times before.

My mind fluttered back to Jenny’s hands … those eerie burn marks … everyone had assumed they were torture marks, inflicted by the killer—but could she have burned them on something earlier in the night?

“You okay?” Chrissy asked, getting back on her feet, knees cracking.

“Yeah, I think so. Thanks for fixing that. It’s been fucking up for weeks now…” I placed my head in my hands, elbows resting on my knees as I sat on the dirty old cellar step.

“Again, I’m sorry if I frightened you…” Chrissy placed the lighter on a thin wooden shelf along with the screwdriver she’d used. I recognized it—the shiny red handle covered in grooves and nicks. I hadn’t seen it in so long … my father’s tools.

“It’s not that. I barely slept. I can’t stop thinking about our talk, the things you said…”

“I was wasted, Natalie. I’m truly sorry. I have some extra money still. I’ll use it to get a hotel tomorrow,” Chrissy said.

“Drunk or not, I know you remember. You said there was someone else in that field. That you were covering for them … I need to know who it was, Chrissy.”

Chrissy shook her head, walking towards me as though she meant to skirt around me on the stairs and dart back up. I stood, blocking her way.

“I can’t tell the story if you won’t let me. You can trust me, Chrissy. I will listen to anything you tell me. I’m willing to keep an open mind.”

Chrissy gave me a steely look, her face hard like a mask. “You sure about that?”

“I am.”

Her shoulders relaxed and suddenly, she seemed smaller and shrunken, inches shorter than