Page 119 of Peak Cruelty

“No.Just checking if this is a proper extraction or some kind of half-assed revenge tour.”

“It’s both.”

“Figures.”

We hit the hallway.Still quiet.The kind of quiet that feels engineered, not natural.

She keeps pace.Doesn’t ask where we’re going or who’s left.Her hand curls into a fist, loosens, then curls again.

“What day is it?”she says.

“Doesn’t matter.You’re not staying long enough to send a postcard.”

At the corner, she slows.Looks down the hall.

“Is he dead?”

I tighten my grip and guide her forward.“Does it matter?”

She stops.Turns—just enough to look at me.

“To me, it does.”

I hold her gaze.“Yeah.He’s dead.”

She studies me for a beat, then nods once and keeps walking.

By the front door, she pauses.Leans against the frame like she needs a second.I open the closet.Grab a pair of shoes.Help her slip them on.

I hand her a hoodie.She shrugs into it, movements stiff but practiced.

She’s done this before.Not this, exactly.But running’s not new to her.

“You good?”

She nods.Then frowns.“Define good.”

“Conscious.Upright.Capable of running.”

“Check, check, and depends who’s chasing us.”

“Fair.”

Outside, the air hits like a slap.Humid.Damp.She closes her eyes for a second, just one, then opens them again like nothing happened.

“Car’s down hill,” I say.

We move.Quick.Across the porch and down the walkway.

“Mexico has good tacos,” she says.

“Too obvious.We’ll do Utah.Hide in plain sight.”

She groans.“If I die in Utah, I’m haunting you.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

She stumbles once, catches herself.

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