Page 52 of Peak Cruelty

The time I thought I had.

The clock is ticking.

I go back to her.

Still tied.Still watching me as though she knows something I don’t.

I check the straps again.

Not because I need to.

Because she makes me want to.

They’re tight.No marks.

That matters.

It’s the difference between panic and precision.

“Thirsty?”I ask.

She lifts a brow.“Is that the prelude to another waterboarding, or are we just back to small talk?”

I stare at her.Down the glass myself.

Then I close the door.

Let her sit with her thirst.

Because I need to sit with something else:

The sick feeling that no matter how well I dispose of the body, how clean I get the grout, how fast I ditch the van—she’s the one thing I won’t be able to bury.

26

Marlowe

He closes the door, but I know he’s still standing there.Not moving.Not breathing normally.Just hovering on the other side, unable to decide whether to lock it or come back in and finish what he started.

I keep my gaze steady on the wall, my posture still.Let him wonder what I’m thinking.Let him weigh the cost of checking.

Eventually, he moves away.Quiet steps, no wasted motion.A man trying not to trip over his own aftermath.

I stay tied.I don’t struggle.I don’t test the knots for freedom.I test them for odds.They’re tighter this time.Less margin.He’s overcompensating.

That’s fine.Overcompensating men always underestimate.

Time passes.Not much.Enough.The door opens again.He’s changed shirts.Washed his hands.There’s a bottle of water in one of them.No tray.No talk.Just hydration.

He steps close enough to offer it, unscrews the cap as if this is a peace offering and not damage control.He watches the bottle like it’s holding a confession.Like he wants me to choke.

I don’t.I take it in sips.Small, quiet, steady.

When he sets it down, I speak first.“You missed a spot,” I say, nodding at the edge of his wrist.“Blood’s clingy like that.Check your nails later.That’s where it lives.”

He doesn’t answer, but something in him pauses, as though his system just flagged a warning he doesn’t have words for yet.

“I’m not being a smartass,” I add.“If someone helped me wrap a body, I’d want them to check my blind spots, too.”

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