Page 17

SADIE

Back “then”…

F lash! Click-click! Flash!

An officer snaps a few final pictures of my blood-soaked hands before escorting me into an empty interrogation room.

Thankfully, he was nice enough to let me slip out of my clothes hours ago, but he only offered a paper poncho in exchange. He claimed they didn’t have any available sweatpants.

I rock back and forth for what feels like forever, watching the hands tick by on the clock above the door.

After two hours, the door finally opens, and a detective joins me inside.

“Here you go, Miss Pretty.” He sets a cup of hot coffee in front of me. “Sorry about the wait. I did manage to make this exactly how you requested, though: lots of whipped cream and caramel drizzle.”

“Thank you very much.” I take a grateful sip.

“Before we get started, allow me to read you your rights.”

“My rights?” I tilt my head to the side. “Am I in trouble?”

“You have the right to remain silent,” he continues talking. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, you may also…”

I’ve listened to enough True Crime podcasts to know the Miranda rights like the back of my hand, but I’m confused as to why he’s reading them to me and not the actual murder suspect.

I’m just a witness…

“Alright, Miss Pretty.” He taps his notebook. “Would you like to continue talking to me without a lawyer?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Want to tell me what happened this afternoon?”

“An old classmate of mine was selling some artwork online, but I saw that one of the pieces actually belonged to me, and I wanted it back.”

“You’re referring to Jonathan Baylor?”

“Yes.” I nod.

“Were you friends or associates?”

“Neither. I hadn’t spoken to him in years…” I swallow. “But I figured since he was in town and he said it was an ‘open invitation to anyone who went to our high school’ that I could stop by to ask about getting it back.”

“You were two days late for the party, Miss Pretty.” He narrows his eyes. “The party was on Friday. You showed up on a Sunday.”

“I rang the doorbell like ten times.” I wave off his correction. “No one answers and I knew he had a pool, so I assumed he probably couldn’t hear me outside.”

The officer arches a brow.

“I knocked as hard as I could and then I waited for like fifteen minutes before twisting the doorknob and letting myself inside. When I made it to the living room, I found them dead, called 9-1-1, and here we are.”

He blinks.

“Oh, and at some point, I took a shower,” I say. “I can’t remember if that was before or after I found them, though. I, uh, walked by the master bathroom suite and couldn’t resist.”

“You were eating pancakes when the first responders arrived.”

“I forgot about that. That amazing kitchen was practically calling for me to use it, so I had no choice but to make some.”

“Miss Pretty…” He slides his reading glasses down his nose. “The dead bodies were less than twelve feet away from you while you sat there eating.”

“I was really hungry,” I say. “It’s a good thing I did eat because I’ve been with you guys for almost eight hours and all I’ve had so far is coffee.”

“Do you have any fucking idea what you’ve—” He pauses, clenching his jaw. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“All I did was call 9-1-1.” I pause. “Maybe breaking and entering, too, but if I hadn’t done that, who knows when someone else would’ve found those bodies, you know? It might’ve been days, weeks…”

“There are hundreds of defensive stab marks on your hands, your blood is all over the scene, and I’m willing to bet that when we grab footage from all the neighbors’ security cameras, you’ll be the only person who went into that house.”

“How much do you want to bet?”

“Okay, Miss Pretty.” He pushes his chair up to the table. “Stand up and put your hands behind your back. You’re under arrest for first-degree murder…”