Page 37

SADIE

Day Eleven

T he truth serum doesn’t make me feel as loopy or out of control this time.

Probably because Ethan administered it himself.

It’s still potent, but I think I could lie my way around Robin if she tries asking about sex again.

I smile at the memory of Ethan taking hold of me in his bathroom, wishing he’d do it all over again—wishing he’d done it a lot sooner.

“Miss Pretty,” he says, looking at me through his mask, “are you ready for today’s session?”

“Yes.”

The lights dim, and his face disappears, leaving me shrouded in darkness all over again.

“Robin will lead with questions,” his voice soothes me, “but allow me to ask a few off-the-record ones to make sure the system is functioning.”

I nod.

“What’s your favorite book?”

The Count of Monte Cristo.

“When’s your birthday?”

Halloween.

“Do you really have a boyfriend?” He’s been holding onto that one since the Vanderbilt guy asked me days ago.

“Yes and no.”

“It can’t be both.”

“It’s complicated.”

“I think she’s ready,” he says. “Relax…”

The room falls into eerie silence, and I start to drift—until:

“Hello, Sadie.” Robin’s voice echoes through the dark. “Do you feel any remorse for killing Mr. Sorenson?”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“But do you feel remorse?”

“Not really.”

“Your new lawyer has filed appellate papers with the court. There’s a chance you may get a new trial. Do you think you deserve one?”

“I deserve to be free.”

“If Jonathan Baylor really raped you?—”

“He did.”

“Yes, well… did you ever tell your lawyer that?”

Silence.

“Sadie?”

Hot tears slide down my cheeks.

“Would you like to come back to this question?”

“Yes, please.”

“Very well, then…”

She drills question after question, probing deeper, but she doesn’t find what she’s looking for. It’s not until the lights rise slightly that I catch a glimpse of her exasperated expression.

“Do you think it was fair for the judge to give you a sentence that allowed for multiple chances at early parole,” she asks, “just because you were found to be insane at the time of the crime?”

I blink.

I’ve heard this line before. Same cadence. Same phrasing.

But it wasn’t a question then—it was a monologue.

From her podcast.

“I believe the judge did his job,” I say. “I’m grateful he didn’t give me life without parole.”

“You don’t think you deserved that?”

“No.”

“Okay.” She sighs.

I brace for her to circle back to the lawyer question so I can fake confusion and get out of here, but instead, she pivots again.

“Last question,” she says. “During your isolation sessions, I’m sure Dr. Weiss explained his theory about the three types of criminal birds, correct?”

“He has, yes.”

“Which one do you think you are? Hummingbird, raven, or eagle?”

“You’d have to tell me, Miss Schreiner.”

“That’s not how this works. Which one are you?”

I say nothing.

Because I honestly don’t know.

“Let’s break for lunch and have Miss Pretty moved to the observation room, please,” she sighs, and the room floods with bright light.

I blink against it.

When my eyes adjust, I see Ethan seated nearby, watching me with quiet pride.

He mouths two simple words: Good job.