16 – Sadie
SADIE
Day Nine
H e doesn’t show up for our morning therapy session.
The only sign he’s been to my side of the cabin is a plate of eggs and a new “then” page assignment waiting for me.
As I sit down at the table, I can see him on the front patio with the door wide open. He’s eating his breakfast in fresh air and freedom, and he’s placed his chair directly in front of the doorway on purpose.
He wants me to suffer—to know he’s angry, and to be petty as hell about it.
It’s like he’s jealous of men who don’t even really exist…
I start to stand and confront him—but a sudden click-click-beeeep! keeps me glued to my seat.
“Dr. Weiss, can you come to the red zone camera, please?” a voice comes through the house speakers.
Dr. Weiss slides one more strawberry into his mouth before standing up and walking inside.
His eyes meet mine, lips parting slightly, but he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he heads to the hallway and puts on a pair of headphones, chatting with whoever called him.
“Yes, I see,” he says. “No, I didn’t know that… I’ll be sure to ask. Thank you for bringing that to my attention.”
He hangs up the headphones and walks toward me, stopping in front of my table.
“I could’ve sworn I told you to never lie to me, Sadie.”
I set down my plastic fork.
“Why would you test me?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. “I could’ve sworn I warned you about lies…”
“With all due respect, it’d be a lot easier to follow this conversation if you added some context.” I pause. “ Sir .”
His lips twitch into a smile, but the softness disappears instantly.
“You gave a phone interview to the Crime Addict podcast four years ago,” he says. “A one-hour-long one. Do you remember it?”
“Yes,” I nod. “Clear as day.”
I was two years into my sentence then, lonelier than ever, and I had a moment of weakness when I received her petal-pink letter.
In perfect cursive, she told me she believed I was innocent. She wanted to give me a chance to tell my story—especially since the judge blocked a lot of my evidence from the jury.
It was the first time I mentioned that I wasn’t alone that day. That I’d seen someone’s shadow move from the living room and down the hall when I arrived; I’d mentioned it to my lawyer as well, but he never brought it up in my defense.
He wanted to stick to “This bitch is clearly crazy…”
Dr. Weiss taps his fingers against the wood table for several seconds, and a vein swells in his neck.
“It never aired,” I say, confused as to why it matters now. “She said her listeners—and a few sponsors—threatened to boycott if she did.”
“She’s full of shit.” His tone turns cold. “She aired it last weekend. And she’ll be featured on this weekend’s new Dateline episode about you.”
My heart drops.
I’d been compartmentalizing thoughts of the media until now, and I can still remember how horrible the first Dateline episode was.
Well, for me.
The reporting team won multiple Emmys. The lead investigator became a breakout star—and the woman whose research propelled major parts of the story (a different podcaster)—became the “go to” person for “pretty girl serial killers.”
If I’m not mistaken, she works for Dr. Weiss now.
I, on the other hand, was buried in hate mail for months. The ratings never dipped below five million viewers whenever reruns aired.
“There’s no record of you doing a phone interview in any of my files,” he says. “Before I listen to it, is there anything I should know? Anything you said that will fuck up the work my team is doing for you?”
“I don’t see anything that your team is doing for me,” I mutter.
“Take that back.”
“No.”
“Miss Pretty.” His voice tightens. “I understand that you’re prone to say things you don’t mean, given your mental state, so if you could keep in mind that we’re not alone…”
He glances at the left wall just as one of the roaming cameras detaches from its base for its daily stroll.
“I appreciate everything your team is doing for me,” I say, forcing the words. “And I can assure you that there’s nothing new in that podcast. My story has always been the same.”
“Yes— the same , and quite unbelievable.”
“You don’t believe me?” I ask.
“That’s the problem,” he says, sighing. “I believe you one-hundred percent. But some of the people we could talk to about this aren’t alive anymore and unless Shadow Man has a phone number or an address?—”
“He left something at the crime scene.”
“Too bad it wasn’t his DNA.”
“It was a memento, a thank you to our love.”
“So, now you knew Shadow Man—a person who literally just came out of nowhere long after you were sentenced, and you were in love with him?”
“I know I sound crazy…”
“Crazy doesn’t even begin to describe you…” He lets out an exasperated sigh, and then he pulls out a bottle of pink pills.
Handing them to me, he motions for me to take them and watches them slide down my throat.
“So…” he says. “I’m going to do you a favor and file this conversation under a side effect for the new drugs you’re taking, but for the record, being in love makes you go to prison?”
“Ours did.”
“Sadie, I’m really trying to…” He holds back a sigh. “If what you’re saying is true—your love seems one-sided. Cruel, honestly.”
“It is pretty cruel…” I avert my gaze, feeling helpless all over again. “Can you go back to avoiding me on the porch now?”
“Gladly.”