Page 23 of Pretty Cruel Love

“Yes, Dr. Weiss.” I push off the covers and sit up on the bed.

“Good to hear that.” He holds out the cup for me. “Half coffee, half whipped cream and caramel.”

“Thank you.” I take the cup and enjoy a long, slow sip.

Clicking his pen, he glances over at the chessboard—noticing that it’s his turn. He picks up an adjacent pawn and moves it one space forward before focusing on me again.

“Let’s get straight to the point,” he says. “Why should you be let out of prison and allowed back into society?”

“Prison is for criminals.”

“That’sexactlywhy you were sent there.”

“I didn’t commit those murders, Dr. Weiss. It was someone else ... Didn’t you admit me into this cabin because you believe I didn’t do it?”

“Answer my question, Miss Pretty.” His voice is firm. “Why should you be let out of prison?”

“I’m innocent.”

“I see.” He stares at me, his expression a cross between amusement and frustration. “It’s common for patients suffering from certain dissociative disorders to imagine another person outside of themselves committing crimes they’re ashamed of or don’t want to admit to.”

“Is that a fancy way of saying imaginary friends?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t have any of those.”

Silence.

“So, you expect me to believe that someone else committed these murders, and you’re serving time for them?” He leansback in the chair, giving me a glimpse of his chest through the unbuttoned shirt. “Instead of cutting a deal for yourself or exposing the real murderer, you decided to just do the time?”

I don’t have a decent answer for that, and he scribbles on his pad.

“Does it hurt your feelings whenever people call you a murderer, Miss Pretty?”

“I never respond to anyone who calls me that.”

“Do you feel any remorse for what you did?”

I don’t know how to answer that question.

“Miss Pretty?”

“Yes?”

“I just asked if you feel anything about your three victims,” he says. “Jonathan Baylor, Gregory Sorenson, and Heath Baylor.”

Hearing their names only makes me feel a deep sense of pain…and rage. It feels like sandpaper being etched against every inch of skin—rough and reckless, again and again.

“I….” My breathing slows and my chest begins to ache. The words I really want to say are suddenly trapped in my throat.

Speechless, I set my coffee on the table, and the doctor stares at me in anticipation of an answer.

Something suddenly creaks from my left, and I look over my shoulder.

A camera is inching forward from a still fruit painting, extending its arm and inching its metal neck closer to the table.

Someone is listening and waiting for my answer right now…

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