Thornbird

One

The Ninth Circle of Hell

I press my forehead against the oval window and stare down at the trees and mountains. Acres of land and roofs of log cabins come into focus as the plane descends to the runway. The guitar riff from “Sweet Home Alabama” suddenly plays through my mind.

Of course, this isn’t Alabama. It’s Tennessee. Same difference, though. It’s Southern.

And I’m not.

At least, I haven’t been for as long as I care to remember.

I fiddle nervously with the pendant at my neck as the plane touches down. A soft bump-­bump-bump, and then we’re coasting smoothly on the tarmac. Despite the hour-­long layover in Charlotte, the flight from Allentown, Pennsylvania, was an uneventful one.

While the plane taxis to the gate, I pop my phone off airplane mode and check for messages.

There’s one from Ms. Callan, the social worker who drove me to the airport. Just text me to let me know you got in all right.

Jess sent a bunch of crying emojis and said she misses me already.

Marco texted a single red heart and Good luck down there.

That’s it.

My lips twist. I wish I could say I had more friends at Liberty High, but other than Jess and Marco, I didn’t. No big send-­off party. Nobody generous enough to offer to let me stay with them after Gran died so I could finish my last year of school. Jess didn’t even ask her mother if it was a possibility, but I don’t blame her because we both knew it wasn’t. Her mom can barely afford to feed the two of them, let alone a third person who isn’t even related.

So instead, I’m destined for . . .

Here. The ninth circle of hell.

Otherwise known as Starling, Tennessee.

As the rest of the passengers make their way up the aisle, I stuff my earbuds in to play some Dua Lipa, hoist my backpack onto my shoulder, and fall in line, following them to the baggage claim.

I stand with the other passengers and notice several of them are focused on the television suspended from the ceiling near the arrivals/departures board. It’s tuned to a news program, and since I’d seriously rather watch paint dry, I start to turn away.

Except then a photograph pops up on the screen, making my blood run cold.

It’s a man with graying hair and a full beard. Clad in an orange jumpsuit, he has his cuffed hands together and his head bowed so his face isn’t visible. Doesn’t matter. I know the face he hides. I know it even better than the 24-­7 news junkies who’ve been following the case religiously for the past ten years.

Closed-­captioned words appear on the bottom of the screen.

gabriel thorn’s most recent appeal was denied, and his execution date has been set for later this month.

My stomach lurches and it has nothing to do with the bad coffee I ingested on the flight.

For a moment, I’m a toddler again, watching my parents dance, barefoot and carefree, on the summer-­green grass. Around us, the birdhouses of all colors sway, and I lie in the meadow with my toes in the dirt and a smile on my face, listening to them laugh.

Happier times.

A businessman next to me murmurs, “Let him die.”

I gulp through the nausea as more captions continue to flash.

—­continues to refuse to divulge the locations of his victims’ bodies, denying the families closure.

The hum I hear from the passengers is a mixture of disgust and disapproval, along with that chord of fake sympathy for the victims. Or maybe it’s real sympathy. I’m a cynic, after all. Sometimes I have to remind myself that other people genuinely do care. Infrequently, I assume. But I’m sure it happens.

“Can you believe this sumbitch?” the man in front of me growls to his wife. “Gonna take the secret to the grave, eh? Proper psycho­path, right there.”

“He oughta unburden his conscience,” the wife clucks. She’s clutching a crucifix.

An alarm blares, and the light on the carousel flashes, jolting me with relief. I move away from the crowd, ready to grab my bag and make a run for it.

It doesn’t stop me from hearing their voices. Their condemnations.

“Lowest of the low.”

“Scum of the earth.”

“Selfish bastard.”

“Is there any shot of them finding the bodies now?”

The businessman moves up beside me, scanning the bags that are now being silently belched out onto the conveyor belt.

“Find the bodies?” he mumbles bitterly to no one in particular. “They dragged that lake for months. Dug up that whole forest too. Nothing. Those six families aren’t getting any peace out of this.”

Seven, I think. Seven families.

People always forget the last victim. My mother.

Maybe because she was supposed to stop him and didn’t.

That doesn’t mean our family has suffered any less. In fact, I’ve suffered more. That night, I lost both my parents. But I can’t talk about that, because that was the old me, a girl named Gabrielle Thorn, and I’m not her anymore.

It was so confusing those first few months, adjusting to my new identity. I’d forget my name constantly, even though I was the one who picked it. I’m sure Gran deeply regretted charging a child with such a monumental task, but I suspect she thought it would make me feel better at the time. Hey, Gabs, your mommy’s dead and your daddy’s a monster and the life you’ve always known is gone. Pick a name, any name!

Thorn became Mayfair, which was Gran’s surname. Her attempt at giving me some agency in my own life failed, because for a first name I picked Ryan.

In my defense, I was seven. All I remember is there was a kids’ show I used to watch with a character named Ryan, and I loved his name.

Gran balked. “That's a boy's name.”

“You said I could pick!” I protested. “You said it could be anything.”

“But . . .” She stopped and shrugged. Gran could hold a grudge like nobody’s business, but she picked her battles. “I suppose that’s not the worst name. It’s unique. Ryan Mayfair. Has a certain appeal.”

Not even eighteen years old, and I’ve already lived so many lives. Been so many girls.

Gabrielle Thorn, the broken child who lost two parents in one night.

Ryan Mayfair, who spent ten years trying to piece herself back together.

And now Ryan Shipley, the shiny, blank-­slate girl with no past and absolutely no closet skeletons whatsoever.

Or so the story’s supposed to go.

Next to me, the businessman lunges forward to grab his bag, nudging me slightly and temporarily knocking me off-­balance.

“Pardon,” he says, putting a hand on my elbow to steady me.

As I scoot to the side, I spot my purple suitcase pop out. I scuttle around the waiting passengers and, with the help of a flannel-­clad older man, manage to wrestle it out of the carousel.

“Thanks,” I tell him.

He smiles and tips his cowboy hat at me. “No problem, miss.”

They would not be taking to Gabrielle Thorn so kindly. No one would. They’d be sure to keep their distance.

Around here, the name Thorn is as prickly as it sounds.

I pull up the handle on my suitcase and meander toward the sliding doors, since that seems to be where everyone else is going after they’re sprung from baggage claim. Outside it’s hot for mid-­September. I scan the faces around me.

Then I hear my name, from the direction of a battered pickup idling at the curb. In front of it stands a short woman with curly brown hair and white cropped pants that are almost the same shade as her calves.

“Ryan?” Her voice rises an octave.

Looking at her big blue eyes and pale skin dotted with freckles, I have the strangest sense of déjà vu. It evaporates as quickly as it hits me, but I’ve got a scrapbook full of photographs of my mom. This woman is a softer, shorter, older version of her.

“Aunt Maggie?” I ask when I reach her.

“That’s right!” she says, as if I’ve won Final Jeopardy. I recognize her voice from the phone call I had with her shortly after Gran died. That was when I learned I’d be coming to live with the Shipleys. Permanently.

She leans in to give me a stiff hug. “Aw, honey. You look tired. How was your trip?”

“It was fine.”

Maggie waits for me to elaborate. When I don’t, she awkwardly claps her hands together. “All right. Bag in the back.”

I struggle to lift it up and throw it in the bed of the pickup. Then I climb into the two-­seater next to the total stranger who is my last living relative. Well, at least one who isn’t on death row for murder.