Page 4 of Pretty Cruel Love

It's flanked by rows of red rose bushes and leafy green magnolia trees—a place that clearly got lost on its way to a college campus and settled for the seventh circle of hell.

“Cell Block C, reporting to the warden,” Ackerman speaks into the door’s intercom.

When the door opens, I step into a lavish cream-colored living room I’ve seen many times before. Bright daffodils and pink tulips stand in crystal vases, and bright paintings stare down at me from glittering silver frames.

The warden—Nathaniel‘Can’t Trust Him’Burress—is leaning back in a plush red chair, his legs crossed and his eyes cold. Dressed in his usual navy blue pinstripe suit, he’s wearing a brand-new‘Corrections Lead to New Directions’brooch. Even under this room’s soft light, it’s clear the diamonds are fake.

“Inmate Pretty as requested, sir,” Ackerman announces. “My apologies for the short delay.”

“The short delay?” The warden gives him a pointed look. “You mean the fact you’re forty minutes late?”

“There was a situation I needed to address first.”

“Right…” The warden shakes his head. “I’ll call for you when we’re done.”

Ackerman disappears, and I take a deep breath.

The last time he sent for me without warning, it was to let me know that my mother was on TV promoting her newest book:Raising a Murderer: How I Stopped Blaming Myself. I honestly wish he hadn’t told me at all; since she never visits or answers my calls, she’s just someone I used to know.

Besides, her previous book—A Daughter’s Cruel Love—is full of unforgivable lies, and it hurts to think about.

“I wish I’d summoned you under better circumstances,” the warden says. “We have quite a bit to go over today, and I’m sure you’d appreciate some small talk first.”

No, please just spit it out…

He stands from his chair and walks to the coffee table. Then he opens a drawer, revealing all my paint tins and brushes.

“I had an officer confiscate your paint from the other side of the wall during breakfast.” He winks. “It’s a good thing I’m always looking out for you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” I say, even though it’s definitely not a good thing.

“I need you to start a new painting for me,” he says, pulling a blank canvas from behind the couch. “My wife loved the last one so much she can’t stop talking about it.”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“I’ll also need some small nature-like ones for a few good friends of mine. The first wants a picture of his daughters on a cloud with halos. The second—actually, wait…” He moves closer to me and pulls out a key to unlock my chains. “Go grab some supplies from my study. I want you to take notes before you start.”

“Right away, sir.”

Rushing down the long hallway, I slip into his office and hesitate for a few seconds to make sure he didn’t follow. Then, I make a beeline for the deep freezer in the corner.

Looking through its frosted glass, I realize he’s finally made a mistake.

He forgot to lock it today.

I slowly push the lid open, staring at thick stacks of the warden’s addiction: Passion Strawberry Ice Cream bars.

The pretty pink wrappers boast about having“real, fresh strawberries,”not the processed,“strawberry-like”abominations that are served in the cafeteria.

Despite all the paintings I’ve done for this man—seventy-six and counting—he's never offered me a single ice cream bar. Even when he’s wolfing them down in front of my face, he never thinks to ask if I want one.

Desperate for a taste, I unwrap one. I stare at it for a few seconds—contemplate putting it back—but then I take a huge bite.

Oh. My. God.

Sweet, cold pleasure explodes on my tongue, and I shut my eyes. The bits of strawberries taste like freedom, and the cream is sweeter than anything I’ve had in years.

I hold back a moan and try not to melt in ecstasy.

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