Chapter Ten The Thorn-Poke
ten
The Thorn-Poke
I gag. Audibly. I actually have to hold back the hot rush of vomit gurgling in the back of my throat. “He—what?”
My aunt’s sympathetic look confirms I’m not hearing things.
“No,” I blurt out. “Why would he even ask me that?”
And what kind of sick, twisted person would I be if I was like, Sure! What a great way to spend a Saturday!
“I know,” she says calmly. “I figured you’d say that. I told Mr. Berkley as much. But I felt like it was something I needed to pass along, since he’s your daddy and all. And the lawyers require an answer today by noon because they need to make arrangements.”
“Why do they want me there? I’m a minor. Is that even allowed?”
“It’s allowed, yes. And I don’t know why, but I suspect it’s probably because the bodies were never found. They’ve been hoping that before he died, he’d tell everyone where he hid them. But he hasn’t, and I think their hope is that with you there, maybe he’ll…”
She trails off, but I can fill in the blanks. Maybe he’ll have some compassion and give these families some peace.
I stare straight out the windshield, shell-shocked. “Well, you have my answer. It’s hell no.”
In the silence that follows, I decide I’d rather be in school than endure any more of this conversation.
“Is that all?” I prompt, my voice tight. “Because I have photography class next and don’t want to miss it.”
When she nods, I reach for the door handle.
“Have a good day, darlin’—”
I close the door before she can finish. I can’t even pretend to be polite right now. Every step I take echoes with the thought I’ve just been invited to my father’s execution.
A shiver runs up my spine, and I have to physically shake it off. I hurry inside and duck into the office to sign back in, even though we never left school property.
Behind the front desk stands a teenage aide. An Asian guy I’ve seen before in one of my classes. French class, I think. He has an unfortunate wedge of a haircut that sticks up severely in the back of his side part.
“Back already?” he says, grinning.
I nod absently. I’m thinking of the execution. Of walking down a long, bare hall. Sitting in a dimly lit room behind a sheet of glass. Making eye contact with my father. Watching him lie on that table and thrash and gurgle until he takes his last breath.
“Hello?”
The guy snaps his fingers.
I blink out of the horror movie playing in my mind. “Excuse me?”
He looks past my shoulders toward the door. “I said, where’s your aunt? She’s the one who needs to sign you back in. You can’t do it yourself.”
“Oh, I…” I stare blankly. I can’t seem to think of anything other than that I’ve been invited to see my father die. “She left.”
He waves me off. “Whatever. I’ll take care of it.” He writes something in the logbook. “I’m Ty, by the way. You’re in my French class.”
“Right. Hi. I’m Ryan. I’m—”
“New. Trust me, we all know.” He glances up at the clock. “You should be able to catch the end of homeroom. Otherwise just dick around until your next class. See you in French.”
“See you.”
I leave the office and try to remember where the art wing is. After a week of classes, I should know this, but I end up taking the long way around, because all I can think about is my father, flopping about on a table like a fish on a pier.
Bile burns my throat, and I suddenly pivot toward the nearest restroom, unable to contain the nausea. I barely manage to reach the toilet in time.
When I’ve purged my guts of every last bite of my breakfast, I rinse my mouth and dig out a mint from my bag. Then I study my reflection in the mirror, hoping I don’t look like a girl who just got invited to watch her dad die by lethal injection.
I make it to photography class a few minutes before the bell rings, taking my seat at the table.
My stomach’s still in knots, but at least there’s nothing left in it to throw up.
Mr. Hicks passes out the assignment sheets for our next project, but the paper in front of me blurs, the words completely lost.
“Ryan?” Mar’s voice cuts through my brain fog.
I blink, realizing she’s been talking to me. She’s sitting beside me, sketching out ideas for the project, her gaze expectant.
“What?”
“What do you think of this idea? I was thinking of doing a series on reflections—like, mirrors, water, windows, stuff like that.”
“Oh. Yeah,” I mumble, not really hearing what she’s saying.
I’m still stuck in that SUV with my aunt, receiving that gruesome invitation. My heart’s racing, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t focus on anything else.
Mar is clearly waiting for more of a response. When I don’t give her one, she frowns. “Okay. Well, what about your project? Did you decide what you’re going to do? You could use that bird photo, right? The one you showed me last week?”
I know I should say something—anything—but my mind is too tangled, my intestines still twisting.
“Dude, are you even listening?” Mar’s voice sharpens, and when I finally glance at her, hurt clouds her expression.
“Sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind,” I say.
Once again, she waits for me to elaborate, but I don’t know what to say. I can’t tell her about the execution, about the murderer who spawned me, about the sick feeling in my stomach.
She sighs, turning away from me. I know I’ve upset her, but I can’t make myself explain. Can’t even come up with a decent-enough lie.
Just when I think the day from hell can’t get any worse, French class rolls around.
We don’t have assigned seating, so my new pal from the office, Ty, swaps seats with the girl beside me, and it’s all well and good until we’re tasked with conjugating a list of verbs, and the two students in the row ahead of us start whispering about the Gabriel Thorn execution.
Making no attempt to hide that he’s eavesdropping, Ty glances over at me, his face lighting up. “Ah, the Thorn-Poke. You celebrating?”
“The what?”
Thorn-Poke? God, that can’t mean what I think it means. My stomach can’t catch a frickin’ break. I don’t think it’s stopped churning since I woke up this morning.
“You know, the serial killer? The Starling Slayer?” Ty grins. “He’s getting the needle soon. There are a ton of parties that weekend to celebrate. We call ’em Thorn-Pokes.”
Horror swirls in my gut. I don’t know why.
My father certainly deserves to die for what he did.
But…celebrating his death? How does his execution call for a celebration?
It’s all so twisted and wrong. As terrible as he is, he’s still the man who cared for me for the first seven years of my life, better than any father could have. I could never celebrate his death.
I would never hurt you, Gabby. Ever.
I feel all the blood drain from my face and hope Ty doesn’t notice. “Um. That sounds…”
“Barbaric? Grotesque?” he supplies. “Yeah, it totally is. But the people in this town are bloodthirsty fuckers.”
“You included?”
Ty gives me a shrug. “Me? I’m more interested in money than blood. Did you hear about the million-dollar reward? Now, that’s what I’m talking about.”
“Mr. Cheng,” our teacher chides. “Less talking, more conjugating.”
Ty falls silent with a pout. Meanwhile, my eyes begin to sting. God, I just want to cry. I can’t escape it, no matter where I go, no matter who I talk to.
I keep my head down, trying to focus on my French textbook. But I’m a hundred miles away, at the prison, in that room, watching my father—the man who brought me into this world—leave it for good.