Page 59 of Peak Cruelty

The body’s waiting.

He opens the hatch.Not a word.Just hands me gloves.

Thin latex.Cold.

We lift together.It takes coordination.Pressure.Trust.

Not the emotional kind.The physical kind.The kind that says: if I drop this, I’m the next one in.

He doesn’t look at me, but I feel him thinking.

He’s wondering what kind of woman helps carry a body without needing to be told.

I want to know what kind of man invites her.

We load the body into the trunk of a sedan—dark, unremarkable.He opens the passenger door for me like it’s a date.

I get in.No hesitation.

Not because I trust him.Because I want to see what he does next.

The drive is short, but stretched.

He doesn’t speak.Doesn’t glance over.Doesn’t fill the space with threats.

But the silence isn’t empty.

It’s aware.

Like both of us know there’s a before and after to what’s about to happen.

We turn off the main road.Sand pings the undercarriage.Deer shadows flicker past the headlights.

Then the trees open, and we’re there.

Boat ramp.Old.Splintered.The kind of place that doesn’t show up on maps anymore.

The water’s black, choppy, tidal.Less like a sea, more like an appetite.

He kills the engine.Gets out.Opens the trunk.

We unload.Together.

The tarp isn’t heavy.It’s dense.

He gives me one corner.Doesn’t ask.Doesn’t warn.

I don’t ask, either.I carry my end.

The boat’s tied to a rotting dock.Fiberglass.Quiet.

He climbs in.Then looks at me.

“In.”

Just that.

I step in.It rocks under my weight.He steadies it without touching me.

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