Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 47525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 158(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47525 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 158(@300wpm)
Fuck. I immediately log off.
“We have a problem, Dr. Weiss.” Robin appears at my desk, looking like she’s seen a ghost.
“A huge, will-ruin-everything kind of problem.”
“Robin…” I don’t move. “Please stop using your suspense-building-author lessons on me. Just say it.”
“A huge chunk of the staff is refusing to work this case with us,” she blurts out. “They’ve come down with mystery illnesses, taken paid leave, or straight-up refused to participate.”
I raise a brow. “Define ‘huge chunk.’”
“Everyone except you, me, Sheldon, and the nurses.”
Jesus. That’s over fifty people.
“Bet you wish I’d built up the suspense now, don’t you?”
I don’t answer. I knew this was coming the moment I named her as the next cabin subject.
The second her file hit the table, the room went still. All the excitement drained out of the air and into the vents.
When I ended the hour-long pitch with, ‘Who’s ready to study Sadie?’ not a single hand went up.
We all sat in silence for ten minutes until Robin suggested a lunch break.
Any other therapist would’ve taken the hint, but I’m not most therapists.
“Are you planning to bail on me too?” I ask Robin. “I’d rather you tell me now than later.”
“No.” She folds her arms, firm. “I’m all in. I’ve been obsessed with this batshit-crazy woman for years.”
“Good to know.” I let her comment slide. “Get me a list of who’s left. I’ll bring my first session notes to you after lunch.”
“You still have time to walk away from this, you know,” she says. “Everyone in the media is calling you an egotistical idiot.”
“Name one time the media got anything right.”
“She’s a hopeless case, Dr. Weiss. She killed them in cold blood.” Her voice softens. “You can label her with anything you want—sociopath, borderline, trauma-bonded psychopath—but at the end of the day—”
“At the end of the day,” I interrupt, “you really believe she murdered three men in broad daylight and then called 911 herself? All without even attempting to run away?”
She doesn’t answer.
“She doesn’t match the profile of a true psychopathic murderer,” I say. “She hasn’t even had any infractions in prison.”
“Wrong.” She tosses a folder on my desk. “Seven minor write-ups and one major that cost her a month of phone privileges.”
“What was that one for?”
“Offering to suck off a guard in exchange for ice cream.”
Impossible. I shake my head. There’s no way I would’ve missed seeing that; it’s not in any of the files I have.
“Have someone verify it,” I say.
“I am someone.”
“Then verify it.”
“Now?”
“No, next year.” I shrug. “In fact, schedule it for ten years from now—maybe it’ll feel urgent by then.”
“Fine.” She sighs. “Your brilliance and assholery aside, how exactly are you going to manage the intensive research part without the rest of the team?”
“I guess I’ll have to step out a few hours a day.” I pause. “I made Sadie’s lawyer a promise, and last time I checked, I don’t break those.”
“Not even for a murderer,” she mutters under her breath.
My glare shuts her up.
“Let’s say she did it,” I say, not wanting to run her off with everyone else. “Wouldn’t that make her the most fascinating patient we’ve ever had?”
Robin exhales slowly.
“Better question—if she were released tomorrow, do you honestly think she’d kill someone else?”
“No.” She looks genuine. “I don’t.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m on your side no matter what, okay?” She stares at me for a beat longer. “Just… watch your back, Dr. Weiss. And watch her twice as hard.”
She leaves without another word, and the moment the door clicks shut, I open my laptop.
I log back into the system and sign in to steal more glimpses of Sadie.
8
SADIE
Day Five
(Well, day two for me)
In Dr. Weiss’s cabin, time passes in soft, silent strands, weaving the hours together in slow, deliberate stitches. The clocks are programmed to move only once every five minutes, stretching each moment into something longer than it should be.
At noon, after the sun has settled in the sky, the indoor lights dim down a shade with every hour that passes, without the buzzing I’ve become accustomed to. In the silence, I experience something from my past life I’ve almost forgotten—something that I clearly took for granted.
An actual dark night.
Rolling out of my bed, I head to the kitchen and open the microwave. Somehow, the staff manages to deliver my meals through the back of it without ever stepping through the front door.
Today’s offering is French toast, sliced boiled eggs, and sliced bananas. Since I’m still full from last night’s steak salad, I decide to eat it a little later and pick up where I left off yesterday from my private tour.
Tiptoeing past my side of the cabin and down a hallway, I find Dr. Weiss’s suite.
It’s tucked behind a wall of black glass, enclosed by two French doors. Made of sleek metal, they’re both painted in a soft robin’s egg blue and are wearing the same silver sign: Dr. Weiss Residence. Not for Inmates.