Page 43 of Pretty Cruel Love

Guard who filed and then un-filed a complaint about her coming onto him for ice cream: ????

Ithumb through the list of people I need to investigate with less than a week’s time and suppress a deep sigh. With any other patient—and at this critical stage of the experiment—the staff and legal team would be meeting me in the cabin, armed with research and notes.

I wouldn’t be drowning in these details alone in my office.

The scent of takeout noodles lingers in the air, but it does nothing to cut the pressure in my chest.

“A ninety-nine percent success rate isn’t that bad, Dr. Weiss,” Robin says as she steps into the room, announcing my worst fear.

“You’ll still have one hell of a legacy.” She sets a carton of noodles in front of me. “You’ll still be miles ahead of all your peers.”

Right…I unwrap a fork.

“Just to be clear: if her new lawyer gets the evidence admitted and they eventually drop the charges, she can’t be charged with murder again, correct?”

“Don’t make me run a ‘Delusional Patient’ test on you,” she says. “If you turn out to be legally insane, I’ll have to report you to the medical board.”

“Are you planning to quit on me too?” I’m not in the mood for games today. “I’d rather know now.”

“No, I’m all in.” She shakes her head. “I’ve been obsessed with this batshit crazy woman for years.”

“I would hope so,” I say. “Her story made your former podcast a phenomenon…”

“Yeah, I guess I should be grateful she murdered three people so I could get a story and a great job out of it.”

“You’re welcome.” I let her dry comment slide and stand. “Walk me through Sadie’s wall.”

“Again?”

I shoot her a look, and she rushes to the other side of the room.

She dims the lights in my office, illuminating the twenty-foot wall covered in photos of Sadie, the crime scene, and notes from all her interrogations with lawyers and doctors.

A low electric hum fills the silence as the projector flickers to life, casting a bluish glow over the wall.

Even though we know every fact of the case like the back of our hands, she explains it to me as if I’ve never heard it—like we haven’t both rendered our own personal verdicts.

“On the morning of October 8th, Sadie Elizabeth Pretty walks into an estate home, armed with three knives, and mercilessly attacks her first victim, Jonathan Baylor—star quarterback of the Atlanta Falcons. He’s a beloved hometown sportsman who?—”

“I don’t give a fuck about him.” I wave a hand. “Stick to Sadie.”

“After stabbing Mr. Baylor, she takes a shower in the master bathroom. For reasons unknown, she also draws a long bubble bath.”

She clicks a few slides, showing me the blood-splattered towels on the white-tiled floor.

“She takes a tour of the home, and upon hearing the garage open, she waits by the door for her next victim, Heath Baylor—Jonathan’s father. But something must have tipped her off that he wasn’t alone, because she doesn’t strike right away.”

“She hides out of sight for a while, watching them settle on the couch. And then she strikes from behind. Heath gets an instant stab to the neck. The elder Baylor takes one to the back.”

The autopsy report appears onscreen, the coroner’s notes bolded in red.

“Both men were at a severe disadvantage when it came to fighting back,” Robin continues. “They both fall victim to Sadie Pretty after multiple stab wounds to the head and chest.”

“Allegedly.”

“A jury convicted her, Dr. Weiss.” She flicks her wand at the photos of the victims. The Baylor men are dressed in suits and ties at a football game. The principal is smiling with a group of schoolchildren.

“Remind me—what’s the connection between her and these men?” I feign ignorance.

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