Page 37 of Pretty Cruel Love

The only sign he’s been to my side of the cabin is a plate of eggs and a new “then” page assignment waiting for me.

As I sit down at the table, I can see him on the front patio with the door wide open. He’s eating his breakfast in fresh air and freedom, and he’s placed his chair directly in front of the doorway on purpose.

He wants me to suffer—to know he’s angry, and to be petty as hell about it.

It’s like he’s jealous of men who don’t even really exist…

I start to stand and confront him—but a suddenclick-click-beeeep!keeps me glued to my seat.

“Dr. Weiss, can you come to the red zone camera, please?” a voice comes through the house speakers.

Dr. Weiss slides one more strawberry into his mouth before standing up and walking inside.

His eyes meet mine, lips parting slightly, but he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he heads to the hallway and puts on a pair of headphones, chatting with whoever called him.

“Yes, I see,” he says. “No, I didn’t know that… I’ll be sure to ask. Thank you for bringing that to my attention.”

He hangs up the headphones and walks toward me, stopping in front of my table.

“I could’ve sworn I told you to never lie to me, Sadie.”

I set down my plastic fork.

“Why would you test me?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. “I could’ve sworn I warned you about lies…”

“With all due respect, it’d be a lot easier to follow this conversation if you added some context.” I pause. “Sir.”

His lips twitch into a smile, but the softness disappears instantly.

“You gave a phone interview to theCrime Addictpodcast four years ago,” he says. “A one-hour-long one. Do you remember it?”

“Yes,” I nod. “Clear as day.”

I was two years into my sentence then, lonelier than ever, and I had a moment of weakness when I received her petal-pink letter.

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 newDatelineepisode about you.”

My heart drops.

I’d been compartmentalizing thoughts of the media until now, and I can still remember how horrible the firstDatelineepisode 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.

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