“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 lostbothmy 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 wasseven. 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 beanything.”
“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.
