The important thing to remember is that I, Tennessee Lilybeth Turner, did not try to kill anyone.
Look, I’m not saying I haven’t contemplated killing people in the past, nor am I virtuous enough to declare that I would be terribly sad to learn if some people (fine, most people) in this town found their unfortunate, untimely demise.
But taking a person’s life?
Nuh-uh.
That’s something I am one-hundred percent incapable of doing.
Mentally, I mean.
Physically, I could totally take a bitch down if I put my mind to it. I’m in pretty good shape from working on my feet all day carrying twenty-pound trays full of greasy food.
Emotionally, I just couldn’t live with myself if I knew I’d made someone else’s heart stop beating.
And then there’s the going to jail part, which I’m not super hot on, either. Not that I’m spoiled or anything, but I’m a picky eater, and I’ve never had a roommate. Why start now?
Plus, I sort of reached my sin quota for the past three decades. Killing someone at this point would be—excuse my pun—overkill. Like I’m hogging all of the bad press Fairhope, North Carolina has allotted to its citizens.
There Messy Nessy goes again. With her out-of-wedlock baby, throat-punching tendencies and spontaneous murders.
(I shall explain the throat-punching incident in due time. Context is crucial for that story.)
So, now that it is established that I definitely, certainly, unquestionably did not try to kill anyone, there is one thing I should make clear:
Gabriella Holland deserved to die.
