Page 123 of Peak Cruelty

“I owe him.”

“Your death is not going to help him, Mar?—”

My hands are shaking.My whole body is.I grip the dash like it’ll anchor me.

Rachel shifts the car into drive.“If you’re still breathing, it means he did what he came to do.”

“I could’ve?—”

“You couldn’t have saved him.”Her voice is flat.Final.“You know that.”

I don’t answer.

Because she’s right.

I press my palm to my mouth, try to swallow whatever’s clawing its way up my throat.It’s not grief.Not yet.It’s something older.Sharper.

We drive.

And I don’t look back.

Not because I don’t want to—because if I do, I’ll make her turn around.I’ll jump out.I’ll undo everything he just did…except the one thing I can’t.

60

Marlowe

We’re halfway down the road when Rachel grabs her phone.

Sirens wail in the distance, muffled by smoke and adrenaline.I’m shaking beside her, eyes unfocused, breathing like it hurts—because it does.

Rachel, still high on proximity to violence, flips the camera to selfie mode.

Laughs.Breathless.

“I can’t believe this—us, escaping the cartel or whatever—Jesus, we need a Netflix deal.”

She’s mid-recording when I turn to her, panicked.“I’m going back.”

Rachel doesn’t hesitate.Reaches over.Unbuckles.Throws the door open.

To stop me?

To make a point?

To get a better angle?

Doesn’t matter.

The van hits her before she finishes the sentence.

Hard.Fast.No warning.

Not a bullet.

Not revenge.

Just a delivery van on its normal route.

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