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 softbump-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 andGood 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.”
