Page 134 of Peak Cruelty

The way someone knocks when they know the door’s going to open.

And it does.

She peers through the gap, confused.No chain.

“Can I help y?—”

She doesn’t finish.

Her eyes flick down.Sees the gloves.Sees nothing else.

She doesn’t call for help.

She inhales like she’s going to, but I’m already moving.One hand on the door, the other at her throat.We stumble inside together, like a lover’s quarrel no one will hear.

No struggle.Just shock.

The air smells like microwave popcorn and hair dye.I register it without trying.There’s a diffuser on the side table, scenting the room like eucalyptus and denial.

She claws at my wrists, but it’s not enough.

I drag her to the kitchen.Not far.She kicks once—makes contact—but I don’t let go.

Under the sink—basic.Cheap.Industrial.

Drain cleaner.

Ammonia.

I find the spray bottle with no label, give it a quick sniff.Window cleaner.Good enough.I unscrew the cap, pour half into the trash.Mix the rest with whatever she left in the wine glass.

Nothing fatal on its own.Not technically.But enough to make her woozy, maybe disoriented.Enough to make the fall look real.

I wait for her to regain her footing.Let her shove me.Let her feel like maybe she’s getting control back.

Then I grab the back of her head and guide it, fast and perfect, into the marble edge of the counter.

It’s not the kind of blow that kills right away.

It’s the kind that makes people dizzy.

The kind that makes them slip.

The kind that causes brain bleeds.

I let her crawl—half-blind—toward the hallway.I step past her, to the bathroom.Wet tile.Loose rug.Shower still damp.

All I have to do is wait.

She makes it halfway to the bathroom door before collapsing.Not out cold.Not yet.

But close.

I pull her the rest of the way.

Position her feet.Her hands.Her phone within reach.

She could’ve been texting.

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