Charley's Web by Joy Fielding Read Free Book Online Page A

played any part in the horrible things they say I did. It doesn’t seem possible that I could have been involved in any way. I’m really a very good person at heart. I hope you believe me. I even hope one day we might be friends.
    Which brings me to the reason for this letter.
    In the past year, I’ve had a lot of time to think. About all sorts of things. Not just the terrible things that landed me here, although obviously they’re very important, but about how a person with my background and upbringing—my parents have been together for almost thirty-four years, and are regular churchgoers, plus I have an older brother and sister who’ve never been in any trouble with the police. Not to mention, I’ve always been very considerate of others. I wouldn’t even step on an ant. I swear, if I saw one inside the house, I’d pick it up in a tissue and carry it gently outside. So, how could I possibly be guilty of doing such horrible things to actual human beings? It doesn’t make sense.
    Of course, at first everyone thought that Gary was to blame, that he was the true mastermind behind what happened. That was so not true. Gary couldn’t mastermind his way out of a paper bag, as my mother used to say. And though I hate to admit it, she was right. (Don’t tell her I said so.) Besides, even though Gary was technically my boyfriend at the time of the murders, I’d already moved on. Some people still think he had something to do with what went down. They can’t believe a girl could commit the heinous crimes I’ve been accused of all on her own.
    Maybe they’re right.
    Am I whetting your interest?
    I’m facing a lot of issues these days, and I’m starting to question everything. Trouble is, I don’t always know the right questions to ask. Which is, hopefully, where you come in. Even though I don’t get to read your columns as frequently as I used to, and they’re usually old by the time I get to see them, I still enjoy them, and think you’re a wonderful writer. You have a way of getting to the truth, and expressing it clearly and without pretension. You’re sensitive and caring, but you don’t take crap from anyone. You stand up for what you believe, and you aren’t afraid to take an unpopular stance. Even when you were writing all those unflattering things about me, I still admired you. That’s an amazing talent for someone to have.
    And I have an amazing story to tell.
    Which is what I’m getting at.
    I think it’s time to tell my story—all of it—and I think you’re the only person who can do it justice. Actually, it’d be more of a collaboration, since it would involve you and me spending a lot of time together. I don’t think that would be all that unpleasant for you. I’m really not the way the media—yourself included—portrayed me. I’m not the beast you wrote about. Despite those awful tapes they played at my trial, I’m not a monster.
    People think they know me.
    They don’t.
    Actually, I think we have a lot in common. (Please don’t be angry with me for saying that.)
    But look at the facts: We’re both attractive young women. (Okay, you’re beautiful!) Yes, I’m only twenty-two, but that’s not that much younger than you are. And we both have brothers and sisters, although you’re the oldest, and I’m the baby of the family. We’re both blond and bosomy. And I think we have similar taste in men. We both seem to fall for good-looking older guys who aren’t always the best choices for us. We like our men to be strong and take charge, but then we chafe at the restrictions they try to put on us. Is that why you never got married?
    Personally, I’ve always wanted to get married. I dream of a fairy tale wedding with all the trimmings. Before all this happened, I used to practice writing my vows and designing my dress. I had sketches all over the house. I pictured a long white dress, strapless, but not low-cut. I always think it’s tacky when brides expose too much cleavage, and I