Page 39 of Pretty Cruel Love

As I’m finishing the first set, a loudCRACKKKK! bursts from the kitchen. It repeats, then shifts into a slow, rhythmic creaking.

Confused, I pull on a T-shirt and follow the sound.

Sadie is sitting on the floor in front of the living room wall, dressed in nothing but a long, loose T-shirt. It clings to the curves of her body, and it’s immediately clear—no panties, nobra. Her brushes and paints are scattered around her, and she’s turned one of the white curtains into a makeshift canvas.

It’s blank.

“What are you doing out here, Sadie?” I clear my throat. “I mean, Miss Pretty?”

She doesn’t answer. Her hand continues moving slowly, thoughtfully across the canvas.

“Miss Pretty, I need you to give me an answer,” I say, stepping closer. “Why are you out here instead of in your bed?”

“The guards are smoking outside my window and talking really loudly,” she murmurs. “I can’t sleep, so I’m distracting myself.”

I walk past her and hit the lights in her room.

Sure enough, the window has a jagged crack—likely from something she threw during her arrival tantrum. Smoke drifts in, thick and stale.

I glance up at the camera and make a signal. A flash of lights grants me temporary access to the glass. I wet a towel, press it over the cracks, then send Sheldon a text message:

Move the guards closer to the lake for the night. Smoking complaint.

Seconds later, I spot the flashlights retreating toward the trees.

I kill the lights and return to Sadie.

“You can return to your bed now.”

“Why?” she asks softly. Her voice is fragile, almost hurt.

“You’re supposed to sleep at night. That’s part of the rules.”

“There’s no rule that says I actually have to sleep.”

“Thank you for making that clear. I’ll be sure to adjust that for the next patient.”

“Or,” she offers, “you could let them enjoy a night of freedom and see how it affects their behavior.”

She’s too damn smart for her own good.

Before I can say something corrective, she holds out a paintbrush.

“Can I draw a sitting portrait of you, Dr. Weiss?”

I blink. This should be a fast, firmno—a clear boundary.

“Just for an hour?” she pleads, already reading the hesitation in my silence. “Please…”

I cave. “Under two conditions,” I say. “Otherwise, you go back to bed.”

“What are they?”

“One—you agree to an additional isolation session tomorrow. Two hours. Silence.”

She bites her lip, considering it. “And the second?”

“I get to draw you when you’re done.”

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