Page 55 of Pretty Cruel Love

“Maybe not in real time,” I say. “But I’ll find a way to let you see it after it airs.”

“Thank you, Ethan.”

“You’re very welcome, Sadie.” I slide my fingers through her sudsy hair and gather it into a bun atop her head.

She falls silent. Obeys.

And I don’t know which one of us should be more afraid of that.

“Now, be quiet until I’m finished with you…”

23

SADIE

Night Twelve

Tonight is the night.

The first half of my newest Dateline special—The Pretty Girl Murderer—is set to air, and from what I’d pieced together via tabloids and news clippings weeks ago, it’s bound to break viewership records.

Especially with only two full days left here and my legal fate hanging in the balance.

No matter how many isolation or behavioral sessions Ethan puts me through, there’s no world in which I forget tonight’s broadcast.

I’m sure the producers will recycle the same details they’ve aired before—sprinkling in just enough new interviews and ominous voiceovers to heighten the drama. But this time, they’ll add even more names to my so-called wake. As if I somehow slipped out of prison, killed again, and returned without a soul noticing.

My mother will probably get screen time. She’ll find a subtle way to plug her memoir—maybe wear a brooch with the titleengraved, or stack a few copies strategically on the bookshelf behind her. But I can already feel her betrayal settling in my chest like rot.

Panicking, I sit up on my bed and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to breathe through the ache in my ribs and the storm in my chest.

Think of anything else. Anything else.

The light switch clicks. I open my eyes to find Ethan leaning against the doorframe, holding a glass of water.

As if he knows exactly what I need, he walks toward me and presses the cup into my hands. Then he pulls a bottle of medication from his pocket and shakes out three pills into his palm.

I take them silently, our fingers grazing. He settles into the chair across from me.

The roaming camera glides toward us like it senses something urgent, hovering in slow figure-eights before settling into a corner.

Ethan doesn’t say a word. He picks up my book and a pen, carefully underlining letters one at a time.

He hands it to me, then moves to the chess board, contemplating his next move like it’s any other night.

I down the pills with a single gulp of water and flip to the page.

I’ll stay the night with you here.

Fuck Dateline.

I press my thumb against the edge of the page, rereading it. He didn’t need to say anything out loud—he never does. But I feel it. The shift. The promise hiding beneath those five words.

A small smile pulls at my lips. I shift closer to the table and underline a response of my own.

His knee finds mine under the table—subtle, steady pressure—and we sit like that for hours. Trading underlined words and slow, deliberate chess moves.

Neither of us says a thing. We don’t need to.

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