Page 45 of Pretty Cruel Love

“I reached out to two of the old jurors today.”

“Okay. And you waited until I’m almost gone to tell me this because…?”

“Halfway through the trial, they were ready to vote not guilty. Then something changed.”

“Did they say what the ‘something’ was?”

“They both hung up when I asked… I didn’t think anything of it until I saw your new decor.” She points to the framed art on the wall.

Sadie’s painting.

“When did she give that to you?” Robin asks.

“She didn’t. The warden offered it to me, and I thought…” I stop myself. “What about it?”

“Don’t you see the tiny cursive words ‘paid off jurors’ in the skull’s eyes?”

20

SADIE

Night Ten

Ilay in bed, staring at the vaulted ceiling, my fingers grazing the hemline of my panties. I have two pillows positioned on top of my thighs, and the thickest blanket strewn across my chest.

Shutting my eyes, I envision the first day Dr. Weiss was at my side when I awoke. Instead of serving me that cup of coffee, he demands that I sit in his lap so he can serve me his cock instead.

I slide onto him inch by inch as he teases my nipples with his tongue, as he harshly whispers how good my pussy feels on his cock. I’m on the edge of him being completely inside me, on the edge of feeling a pleasure that I?—

Glass shatters in the kitchen, instantly snapping me out of my fantasy.

“Fuck!” Dr. Weiss growls amidst more shattering, and my eyes flutter open.

When did he get back from his office?

I slip out of bed.

Shirtless, he’s standing at the kitchen sink, holding a bloody left hand under running water.

There’s too much blood for it to come from the shards of a drinking glass.

“Come on…” he hisses. “Come the fuck on…”

I watch as he waits for the blood to clot, but the water pressure does little to stop it from oozing.

A jolt of worry hits me, sharp and unwelcome. He’s hurt. Badly. And he’s pretending it’s nothing.

“You’re making it worse,” I whisper. “It’s not a surface cut.”

He looks over his shoulder at me, and I spot an additional cut on his upper arm.

“Our next session isn’t until the morning, Miss Pretty,” he says flatly. “You may hear noises from time to time.”

His recited words for the cameras can’t hide the agony on his face.

“It’s a muscle wound,” I say, swallowing. “You need a tourniquet.”

“Only one of us is a doctor, Miss Pretty.” The blood is oozing even faster now. “I’ll be fine. Trust me.”

---