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Present Day
T oday is my execution day.
The electric chair is rarely used anymore—most deaths are done by lethal injection, as it is felt to be the most humane option. Bowman explained to me that the protocol in this state calls for the injection of three drugs. First midazolam, a sedative. Then vecuronium bromide, which will paralyze my muscles. And last, potassium chloride, which will stop my heart from beating.
It’s supposed to be more humane, but I have heard that, in reality, the protocol is akin to torture. Even after the sedative enters my bloodstream, I will still be awake. And then, after the second injection, I won’t be able to move or speak as my heart beats erratically and the drugs work to kill me. It could last as long as fifteen minutes.
Fifteen minutes of torture.
I have showered this morning—a rare treat—and now I am dressed in the outfit Kinsey brought for me. It’s the first thing I have worn besides my prison uniform in a long time, and it’s nice to feel like a human being for a couple of hours before I die.
As for the last meal, there was a mix-up and it didn’t get delivered. Instead, my last meal was gray hamburger meat and waterlogged carrots.
As I wait in my cell, all I can think about is the chaplain I met with yesterday. It was Noel. He all but admitted it. He knows that I am going to be put to death today, and he did nothing to stop it. He’s going to let me die as a punishment for what I did.
I have so many regrets. I shouldn’t have allowed my jealousy to get the better of me. I could say that my father’s death in the arms of another woman did a number on me, but that would be avoiding taking responsibility for my actions. I turned on the gas in our house. I knew that Noel wouldn’t be able to smell it, and I gave him instructions to turn on the oven, expecting that the resulting blast would kill him.
It was a terrible thing to do. Even if he had been cheating on me—which he wasn’t—I should not have done it. I have woken up every night this week from nightmares where I relived that final day. I see myself making all the same mistakes, and I am helpless to stop it from happening.
Rhea comes to my cell, which means it’s time. I’m glad it’s her. It’s nice to see a familiar face before I die.
“You look nice,” she tells me.
“Thank you.”
“Your hair is a bit messy, though,” she notes. “Would you like me to brush it for you?”
It’s such a kind gesture. I nod, and Rhea picks up the brush that Kinsey brought for me with my clothes the other day. She runs it gently through my hair, smoothing out the tangles. My hair is so horribly tangled that it almost hurts when she works through the knots, but I let her do it. I don’t want my hair to be tangled when I die.
“There.” Rhea puts down the brush, a look of satisfaction on her face. “Much better.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you ready then?”
In response, I rise to my feet. She shackles me one last time, and I follow her into the execution room, which is adjacent to my cell. That’s the benefit of being on death watch—there’s not far to go when it’s time.
The execution room is small, although larger than my cell. There is a stretcher in the middle of the room, and a slim middle-aged man in scrubs is standing in front of it. Rhea helps me onto the stretcher, and they undo my handcuffs, instead strapping me down to the stretcher.
I was told that the execution room always has a phone in it, in case there is a last-minute reprieve. I don’t see a phone in the room, but it doesn’t matter. There will be no reprieve for me.
“Hello, Talia,” the slim man in scrubs says to me. He must be the executioner, although his voice reminds me a lot of my lawyer’s.
“Hi,” I squeak out.
“My name is Albert,” he says. It’s the same name as the man whose wedding venue I stole all those years ago. “I’m going to insert an IV into your arm.”
I watch as the first needle pierces the skin of my arm. I barely feel it, though. My heart is beating so fast that it hurts. I suppose that will stop soon and forever.
“Just relax,” Albert tells me. “This will all be over soon.”
Yes, it will.
“I’m going to inject the sedative now, Talia,” he says.
He doesn’t ask permission, since it’s not like I’m allowed to refuse. I watch the clear liquid being injected into the IV, and almost instantly, a deep fatigue comes over me. I feel my eyes start to drift shut.
“I didn’t do it, you know,” I say, as if this man cares even the tiniest bit.
Albert is busy drawing up another syringe. “Hmm?”
“I didn’t do it.” My voice slurs on the words. “I didn’t kill my husband. I’m innocent.”
Albert is quiet for a moment, his fingers frozen on the syringe that will paralyze my muscles. He exchanges looks with Rhea and then lets out a deep sigh.
“Yes,” he says, “we know.”
What?