Bad Girls Read Online Free
saw blood.
“We’re going to need an ambulance over here . . . ,” Hunter said into his handheld. “Send Captain [Mike] McAllester and Sergeant [Brian] Boetz, too.”
They were homicide investigators.
Hunter worked his way around the corner from that small bedroom and located in the back of the house a second bedroom, which he also approached with caution.
The door was slightly ajar. Hunter pried it open gently and saw a “hospital-type bed . . . with all kinds of stuff piled on it.” As he walked toward the bed to check the other side, “an arm fell out from underneath a blanket. . . .”
Oh, boy . . .
CHAPTER 2
S HE BELIEVED IT TO BE some sort of celestial “sign.” Those incredibly vivid dreams invading her sleep were coming “for a reason.” They were fuzzy images, certainly, filled with metaphors of “which path to take,” she later explained. In one, Jennifer “Jen” Jones believed she was setting herself up for failure simply because she had been born (as they might say in Texas) “kin” to Clyde Barrow, half of the infamous Bonnie and Clyde murderous duo. Indeed, according to Jen’s grandmother, who was said to have made a shrine in her house dedicated to the old murderer and bank robber, Jen had that bad blood of the Barrows coursing through her veins. As such, there was nothing she could do about it. Jen’s mother before her, Kathy Jones, had set herself on that same path. Kathy was tough as rawhide, a bar bruiser and career criminal, in and out of jail. Kathy had even come close to death a number of times, stabbed and beaten. Jen never saw herself in that same manner. However, coming from that sort of pedigree, she developed a thick exterior and a disastrously unhealthy inner dialogue. She began to convince herself that she could do anything. And all of those dreams she was having lately—those demons speaking to her at night—they fit right into the madness that had become her life. In other words, she felt doomed.
To fail, that is.
“I found a list once,” one of Jen’s sisters explained to me. “Jennifer was, like, just about fourteen. It was a list of all the guys she had slept with. She stopped at one hundred. I asked why [the list abruptly ended]. She said she lost count. The list started with names. As it continued, she dropped the names. I asked why. She said she didn’t even know some of the names of the guys she’d had sex with.”
One hundred was likely an exaggeration, but the sister’s point was clearly made.
Because of the Clyde Barrow connection and a mother she viewed as destructive, unavailable, and quite caught up in a world of drugs and crimes to support bad habits, Jennifer Jones obsessed over the self-prophesized fact in her head that her life had been paved by a road already chosen for her. No matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried, Jen believed nothing could get in the way of this tragic evolution that was her fate.
So why fight it? Jen decided. Why not embrace its ambiguity and dark side? Years ago, Jen wrote about her chosen future in a journal, which had become her best friend at the time. On December 28, 2000, just five days after her fifteenth birthday, Jen sat down and confirmed the inevitable: These dreams are coming to me for a reason....
The fifteen-year-old Jennifer Jones had no idea how visionary—call it wishful thinking, a self-fulfilling prophesy, creating her own reality, whatever—those dreams of her future were to become. The baby-faced, clear-skinned, attractive Texas teen, with long brown hair and a Colgate smile, had set herself on a dangerous and deadly course, indeed. She didn’t know it, but in front of Jen was a carefully chosen path, which her mother, likewise, had tried to manage before her. It was one that Jen had predicted for herself years before. It occurred in tandem with a new “love” of her life—a deceivingly pretty, petite unnatural blonde blinded by the power and curse of addiction—which would end
“We’re going to need an ambulance over here . . . ,” Hunter said into his handheld. “Send Captain [Mike] McAllester and Sergeant [Brian] Boetz, too.”
They were homicide investigators.
Hunter worked his way around the corner from that small bedroom and located in the back of the house a second bedroom, which he also approached with caution.
The door was slightly ajar. Hunter pried it open gently and saw a “hospital-type bed . . . with all kinds of stuff piled on it.” As he walked toward the bed to check the other side, “an arm fell out from underneath a blanket. . . .”
Oh, boy . . .
CHAPTER 2
S HE BELIEVED IT TO BE some sort of celestial “sign.” Those incredibly vivid dreams invading her sleep were coming “for a reason.” They were fuzzy images, certainly, filled with metaphors of “which path to take,” she later explained. In one, Jennifer “Jen” Jones believed she was setting herself up for failure simply because she had been born (as they might say in Texas) “kin” to Clyde Barrow, half of the infamous Bonnie and Clyde murderous duo. Indeed, according to Jen’s grandmother, who was said to have made a shrine in her house dedicated to the old murderer and bank robber, Jen had that bad blood of the Barrows coursing through her veins. As such, there was nothing she could do about it. Jen’s mother before her, Kathy Jones, had set herself on that same path. Kathy was tough as rawhide, a bar bruiser and career criminal, in and out of jail. Kathy had even come close to death a number of times, stabbed and beaten. Jen never saw herself in that same manner. However, coming from that sort of pedigree, she developed a thick exterior and a disastrously unhealthy inner dialogue. She began to convince herself that she could do anything. And all of those dreams she was having lately—those demons speaking to her at night—they fit right into the madness that had become her life. In other words, she felt doomed.
To fail, that is.
“I found a list once,” one of Jen’s sisters explained to me. “Jennifer was, like, just about fourteen. It was a list of all the guys she had slept with. She stopped at one hundred. I asked why [the list abruptly ended]. She said she lost count. The list started with names. As it continued, she dropped the names. I asked why. She said she didn’t even know some of the names of the guys she’d had sex with.”
One hundred was likely an exaggeration, but the sister’s point was clearly made.
Because of the Clyde Barrow connection and a mother she viewed as destructive, unavailable, and quite caught up in a world of drugs and crimes to support bad habits, Jennifer Jones obsessed over the self-prophesized fact in her head that her life had been paved by a road already chosen for her. No matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried, Jen believed nothing could get in the way of this tragic evolution that was her fate.
So why fight it? Jen decided. Why not embrace its ambiguity and dark side? Years ago, Jen wrote about her chosen future in a journal, which had become her best friend at the time. On December 28, 2000, just five days after her fifteenth birthday, Jen sat down and confirmed the inevitable: These dreams are coming to me for a reason....
The fifteen-year-old Jennifer Jones had no idea how visionary—call it wishful thinking, a self-fulfilling prophesy, creating her own reality, whatever—those dreams of her future were to become. The baby-faced, clear-skinned, attractive Texas teen, with long brown hair and a Colgate smile, had set herself on a dangerous and deadly course, indeed. She didn’t know it, but in front of Jen was a carefully chosen path, which her mother, likewise, had tried to manage before her. It was one that Jen had predicted for herself years before. It occurred in tandem with a new “love” of her life—a deceivingly pretty, petite unnatural blonde blinded by the power and curse of addiction—which would end
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