Page 34 of Peak Cruelty

She glances at it.Then at me.“Journaling now?That’s new.”

“It’s not for you to write in.”

She tilts her head, the faintest curl at one corner of her mouth.“Let me guess.You’re going to read to me.Something ominous and metaphorical.”

“No.”

“Shame.I was starting to get comfortable.”

That’s the problem.

I open the book.The inside is hollowed out—precise, clean—and inside is a silver object.Oval.Compact.Familiar.

She sees it.Still doesn’t react.

I hold it between two fingers and set it down gently beside the book.

A pillbox.

I open it.Two white capsules.

“I’m offering you a choice.”

That gets her attention.

She studies me.Then the pills.Then me again.“You don’t strike me as a man who offers anything.”

“Which is why it matters.”

She lets her gaze rest on the pills.“You're offering me a way out.”

I nod once.

“Why?”

“Because some people talk.Others don’t.You?”I tap the table gently.“You perform.And I’m not interested in theater.”

She doesn’t answer.Doesn’t smile.Just watches me the way you’d watch a bomb you haven’t decided whether to disarm or detonate.

“I don’t bluff.If you take them, you don’t wake up.If you don’t, we keep going.It’s not going to be comfortable, I’m sorry to say.”

She lets that sit for a beat.

“So it’s suicide,” she says finally.“With branding.”

“Call it what you want—take them or don’t.If you don’t—we’ll try something less civilized.”

She raises an eyebrow.“That’s your selling point?”

“No,” I say.“That’s a guarantee.”

I hold the bottle out like it’s a peace offering.

“You’ll take them,” I say.“Or you’ll wish you had.”

She glares at me.“What is this supposed to be?A project?A fix?”

I don’t t answer.Just watch her, waiting.

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