Page 27 of Pretty Cruel Love

At exactly eight o’clock, Dr. Weiss strolls into the cabin, heading straight for my bedroom.

He has a clipboard in one hand and a plate of scrambled eggs and strawberries in the other.

His shirt’s half unbuttoned again — this time revealing inked skin and a rock-hard chest. The sunlight pouring in through my window glints off his neck, giving me new material for my next shower fantasy session.

“Good morning, Miss Pretty,” he says, setting down my food.

“Good morning, Dr. Weiss.”

“Let’s get started with today’s questions.” He clicks his pen. “When is your birthday?”

“October thirty-first.”

“Halloween?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting. Where are you originally from?”

“Nashville, Tennessee.”

“Is that where you went to college?”

I smile at these simple questions; they’re already in my file, easy trivia for anyone who’s ever Googled me, and they almost feel flirtatious.

Then again, maybe this is a test. A psychological warm-up…

“Before you went to prison,” he says, pausing, “what did you want to do with your life?”

My smile drops instantly.

That phrase—before you went to prison—always cuts deep. No matter how many times I hear it, it slices right through the version of me who never had the chance to bloom.

“Miss Pretty?” He leans forward. “I said—what did you want to be?”

“An actress,” I say flatly.

“I’ve seen some clips of your work.” He nods. “You were convincing in every role. It’s like you were born to lie.”

I don’t appreciate that last line, so I don’t respond.

“If you got out… would you still pursue that dream? Better yet—” he says, softening his tone, “would you tell the parole board that’s your plan?”

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll aim to be the first convicted A-list murderess.”

“Just so you know, the parole board doesn’t take too kindly to inmates with smart mouths.”

“Maybe if you actually did your job,” I snap, “and held a real session that lasted more than fifteen damn minutes, I’d beable to take my parole hearing seriously. Hell, I might even start taking you andthecabin seriously if you actually followed what’s in the brochure.”

“Good to know.” He smirks. “I’ll keep that in mind for our afternoon session.”

He stands and walks to the chessboard in the corner. Tap. Tap. He touches a piece and makes a move I can’t counter. I’ll lose a rook during his next turn, no matter what move I make next.

“Enjoy your breakfast, Miss Pretty,” he says. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

He turns for the door, and something inside me twists.

“Wait, Dr. Weiss.” I call after him. “Wait.”

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