Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 47525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 158(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 158(@300wpm)
In perfect cursive, she told me she believed I was innocent. She wanted to give me a chance to tell my story—especially since the judge blocked a lot of my evidence from the jury.
It was the first time I mentioned that I wasn’t alone that day. That I’d seen someone’s shadow move from the living room and down the hall when I arrived; I’d mentioned it to my lawyer as well, but he never brought it up in my defense.
He wanted to stick to “This bitch is clearly crazy…”
Dr. Weiss taps his fingers against the wood table for several seconds, and a vein swells in his neck.
“It never aired,” I say, confused as to why it matters now. “She said her listeners—and a few sponsors—threatened to boycott if she did.”
“She’s full of shit.” His tone turns cold. “She aired it last weekend. And she’ll be featured on this weekend’s new Dateline episode about you.”
My heart drops.
I’d been compartmentalizing thoughts of the media until now, and I can still remember how horrible the first Dateline episode was.
Well, for me.
The reporting team won multiple Emmys. The lead investigator became a breakout star—and the woman whose research propelled major parts of the story (a different podcaster)—became the “go to” person for “pretty girl serial killers.”
If I’m not mistaken, she works for Dr. Weiss now.
I, on the other hand, was buried in hate mail for months. The ratings never dipped below five million viewers whenever reruns aired.
“There’s no record of you doing a phone interview in any of my files,” he says. “Before I listen to it, is there anything I should know? Anything you said that will fuck up the work my team is doing for you?”
“I don’t see anything that your team is doing for me,” I mutter.
“Take that back.”
“No.”
“Miss Pretty.” His voice tightens. “I understand that you’re prone to say things you don’t mean, given your mental state, so if you could keep in mind that we’re not alone…”
He glances at the left wall just as one of the roaming cameras detaches from its base for its daily stroll.
“I appreciate everything your team is doing for me,” I say, forcing the words. “And I can assure you that there’s nothing new in that podcast. My story has always been the same.”
“Yes—the same, and quite unbelievable.”
“You don’t believe me?” I ask.
“That’s the problem,” he says, sighing. “I believe you one-hundred percent. But some of the people we could talk to about this aren’t alive anymore and unless Shadow Man has a phone number or an address—”
“He left something at the crime scene.”
“Too bad it wasn’t his DNA.”
“It was a memento, a thank you to our love.”
“So, now you knew Shadow Man—a person who literally just came out of nowhere long after you were sentenced, and you were in love with him?”
“I know I sound crazy…”
“Crazy doesn’t even begin to describe you…” He lets out an exasperated sigh, and then he pulls out a bottle of pink pills.
Handing them to me, he motions for me to take them and watches them slide down my throat.
“So…” he says. “I’m going to do you a favor and file this conversation under a side effect for the new drugs you’re taking, but for the record, being in love makes you go to prison?”
“Ours did.”
“Sadie, I’m really trying to…” He holds back a sigh. “If what you’re saying is true—your love seems one-sided. Cruel, honestly.”
“It is pretty cruel…” I avert my gaze, feeling helpless all over again. “Can you go back to avoiding me on the porch now?”
“Gladly.”
17
DR. WEISS
Night Nine
Cold streams attack my chest as I stand under the shower.
I can’t sleep—not with Sadie so close. And I know from glancing at the monitor that she’s not sleeping either. The way her hands slide under the sheets, the way she bites her bottom lip, eyes half-lidded in the low light…
Fuck.
When I’m practically frozen, I dry off and throw on a pair of sweatpants. I flip off the monitor and try to focus on tomorrow’s session notes.
Well—scripts.
As I’m finishing the first set, a loud CRACKKKK! bursts from the kitchen. It repeats, then shifts into a slow, rhythmic creaking.
Confused, I pull on a T-shirt and follow the sound.
Sadie is sitting on the floor in front of the living room wall, dressed in nothing but a long, loose T-shirt. It clings to the curves of her body, and it’s immediately clear—no panties, no bra. Her brushes and paints are scattered around her, and she’s turned one of the white curtains into a makeshift canvas.
It’s blank.
“What are you doing out here, Sadie?” I clear my throat. “I mean, Miss Pretty?”
She doesn’t answer. Her hand continues moving slowly, thoughtfully across the canvas.
“Miss Pretty, I need you to give me an answer,” I say, stepping closer. “Why are you out here instead of in your bed?”