Page 124 of Peak Cruelty

The scream comes from the driver.

Rachel drops.The phone clatters beside her.Still recording.

That’s the part that goes viral.

61

Marlowe

It’s been twenty-three days.New city.New job.New name on the lease.This is what happens when you run.When you leave the only home you’ve ever known.When you leave your sister dead in the street and slip into the woods like you were never there at all—just so you don’t have to answer too many questions.

Ava went to live with her dad’s parents.Which was probably always in her best interest.They have a big yard.A real dining table.No shady boyfriends.Or girlfriends, for that matter.A lot of loss in a short amount of time.But grief’s never been one for pacing.

It doesn’t knock.It just lets itself in and rearranges the furniture.

Now I don’t talk much.Don’t go out after dark unless I’ve already mapped the exits.I live in a one-bedroom walkup above a nail salon that opens too early and closes too late.The rent’s paid weekly.In cash.The neighbors don’t ask questions.The walls are thin enough that I hear everything, and that’s a comfort now.Silence feels suspicious.It’s what came before the shot.

The woman across the hall leaves for work at 7:14 every morning.She works at a bakery two blocks south.I know her name.I know her schedule.I know she’s cheating on her boyfriend with the guy who delivers flour.She hums the same song when she’s nervous—some old pop hit slowed down like grief.She has no idea I watch her.That’s the point.

I pay attention now.The way Vance did.

Not because I want to.Because what else is there to do?

They say once you know a thing, you can’t unknow it.I wish that were a lie.It’s not.

I know who in this building leaves their keys in the door too long.Who takes delivery without checking the bag.Who always wears earbuds, even when crossing the street like they’re immune.The ones who forget they’re fragile.The ones who wouldn’t survive being chosen.

I’ve lost weight.I don’t notice until the hardware store clerk makes a comment about “women like me not eating enough.”I almost laugh.Not because it’s funny.Because he’s right—and still not close to the reason why.

The job is fine.Temp work.Data entry for a startup.Mostly I sit at a shared desk and click through flagged reports.Shipments that vanished.Nothing interesting.

The manager’s name is Ross.He’s got too many teeth and a wedding ring he forgets to take off when he flirts.I watch him flirt with the girl who sits three rows down.I time how long she takes to fake-laugh.She’s getting slower.

I make mental notes.Not because I care.Because it’s a reflex now.

Every night I come home and take the same path upstairs.Two left turns, one right.Keys between my fingers.I check the deadbolt twice.

Then I sit down and open the black book.

I found it tucked halfway under the seat in Rachel’s car.

I didn’t open it for five days.

When I finally did, I couldn’t stop.

Each page is the same.A name.A city.A timestamp.Nothing more.Nothing less.Some of them are coded.Some of them aren’t.But the meaning comes through.Just like it did the first time I read it in that shitty motel.

The first time I managed to open it again, I felt sick.The second time, I felt rage.The third time, I understood.

They were patterns.All of them.

Like the ones he saw in me.

Sure, he got it wrong and by then it was too late.

But now I see them, too.

In faces.In habits.In mistakes no one thinks twice about.

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