Why I Stopped Reading 'A Story of Love & Murder on Cape Cod'

When I die, don't let men tell my story.

Christa Worthington

Every now and then I become interested enough in the lives behind a particular crime that I buy the books available which address it. Many years ago, when Christa Worthington was murdered in her small Cape Cod home, and found lying dead in her kitchen with her two-year-old daughter nursing on her, I was sickly fascinated, because as a nursing mother myself, it was an impossible image and a close horror to imagine. This year, I saw a Tik Tok about Christa and her murder, reminding me of those sad news stories, and I decided to buy two books on the subject, one of them written by Maria Flook- A Story of Love and Murder on Cape Cod: Invisible Eden.

I quit reading in Part Two, page 177.

It’s interesting to me because normally, if a person quits reading a book, it’s because the book isn’t well-written, or the story bores them. Neither are true here. In fact, Maria Flook can write, really write, and her descriptions of the landscape, the small town of Truro, the family histories, are fantastic- as in I reread some of the paragraphs because they were that good. If she writes a novel, I’ll buy it. The reason I quit reading is because of the way the men in this book talk about Christa Worthington, and the way Flook does not contextualize their words and points of view.

Here are the last words I read, a quote from Christa’s college boyfriend (so a long time before her death, which occurred in 2002, when she was in her 40’s), David Brophy, said about his ex-girlfriend and the mother who had been murdered in front of her toddler.

When she was killed, I read somewhere that she sought out abusive men who were shitheads. I could say, yeah, that’s me. We had a fling. And it ended. But she was a cutie, why wouldn’t I jump her bones?

It was not Maria Flook’s responsibility that the men she interviewed, almost totally throughout this book, are at best, emotionally unintelligent, and at worst, deeply misogynistic and unfeeling, but it is her responsibility how she frames- or declines to- these men, and it was in her power to choose the words and people who ended up in print.

What purpose did this quote- from Christa’s college boyfriend of over 20 years ago, who briefly dated her before breaking up, maintained no contact over the years, and was not quoted as expressing grief over her death- bring to the narrative? What context?

Perhaps Maria Flook felt that these men were damning themselves, but that would only work with a counter-narrative that expresses deep respect for the life of this woman, and whether or not that was intended, it did not come across. Early on in Invisible Eden, Flook writes how Christa’s murder haunts her, and how she feels an affinity with Christa because she herself identifies as being a single mother, a woman who has had an affair with a married man, a woman who is struggling. These words kept floating in my head as I continued reading. It’s confusing to know that Flook cared about Christa’s story so much, and yet left her on the page primarily through the eyes and words of men. And what men.

Flook interviews one of the murder suspects, Christa’s former lover and still friend and neighbor, Tim Arnold, who is quoted throughout the book. Arnold and Christa were never serious, although Arnold says he would have liked to be. He found Christa and her daughter after the murder; he is the one who lifted the little girl up and cared for her while waiting for the police to come. He is grieving. His point of view is presented as fact, instead of the speculation of a deeply lonely man with an unrequited crush. Arnold is divorced and has serious vision problems that cause him balance issues, issues which he blames his divorce on, and he lives alone with his elderly father. Here is an excerpt of Flook reporting from Arnold’s point of view:

He imagined the kiss. He always wanted the kiss. But even when Christa had kissed him, he had often felt her body tense up. She’d straighten her back, nudge his shoulders with the heel of her hands, and gently push him away. Ellen had felt that resistance, too. Whenever she had tried to show affection, Christa would edge away with delicate reserve, as when you lean too close to a butterfly, it lifts away. It doesn’t mean to cause insult to you or to the flower it departs from, but it wants to escape to the next bloom, and the next.

These words are not cruel, or callous, or sexist, like David Brophy’s were. They are instead assumptive, reductive, condescending, patronizing, and not contextualized within the facts: Christa and Tim slept together for a while, Christa was never committed or all in, never expressed that the relationship brought her deep joy, contentment or happiness, and continued seeing Tim casually after their breakup. What is imagined as a dramatic revelation of Christa’s reserve with affection, comparing her to a butterfly who is on to escape to the next bloom, ‘and the next’, could have easily just been the reserve of a woman who enjoyed casual sex with a man who clearly was much more invested in her than she in him. Flook mixes Arnold’s quotes and memories seamlessly with her own interpretation of the situation without clarifying that she is interpreting. I read many, many biographies- it’s one of my favorite genres- and this clarification when reporting on the opinions of others on a subject can be well done, easily, with a few word choices, with the silencing of unimportant voices, or it can be done elaborately, with great length given to context. Either way, it’s not done at all here.

Christa’s entire life is presented in this book largely by men who see her as “damaged goods” (that’s a direct quote, and my blood fucking boiled) because she had a rough relationship with her parents, which is more than half the population of the planet, and while it is valid that her parental relationships directly impacted her adult life, it is not valid to constantly assert that her every action and desire and relationship was simply the result of a damaged woman seeking something- which, if she was, it’s never defined here, with exception of the mention that Christa found meaning when her daughter was born.

The town Sherrif and lead investigator into Christa’s murder is presented as a curmudgeonly, sexist, flatlined man, and this is supposed to be somewhat charming, we ascertain by the author’s side notes on his quotes and attitudes. He criticizes Christa’s messy apartment as it was found when she was lying bloodied and murdered inside it. Another writer would have contextualized this in some way- challenging the man as she sat at a table for two at dinner with him (how this quote came about), normalizing the mess instead of the man, or simply expressing disgust with his attitude, regardless of whether it’s a common response to years on the force or not. When this same man shows Flook the crime scene photos of Christa’s naked body on her kitchen floor, the sippy cup her daughter tried to give her to revive her still there, my disgust was visceral. It was hard to keep reading, because I needed the author to address this horrible thing that was happening, that a man who talked about Christa as a bit of a slut and a woman who kept a messy apartment was the one who kept her naked death photos, the one who decided who saw them.

Christa was a fashion writer- a gifted, successful fashion writer. She was a wonderful mother. She went to Vassar. We know more about what every man who ever came in contact with her beautiful face and mind thought in their tiny dumb brains about her than we know about what Christa studied in Vassar, or what her diaries might have said, or what other talents and hobbies she loved, etc.

Man after man opened his big dumb mouth in this book and I was reading about a woman I suspect Christa might not even recognize. That’s why I stopped reading. I hope Flook writes a novel, though, because she is a gifted writer, and I was truly surprised to come across such great descriptive writing, so captivating, in a true crime book.

When I die, don’t let men tell my story.