Page 60 of Peak Cruelty

Then picks up the oars and rows.As though he’s done this a million times.

Out where the water pulls harder, he stops rowing, sets the oars aside.There’s no sound but the tide hitting wood.

He secures the weights.Fast.Practiced.Not careless.

Then the body goes over.

Silent.Final.

Gone.

He doesn’t pause.Doesn’t watch it sink.Just starts wiping down the interior with a rag that smells like bleach and vinegar.

I sit still.Let him work.

When he finishes, he tosses the rag overboard.It floats.Then sinks.

He turns to me.

“You cold?”

It’s the first time he’s asked me anything that doesn’t have a threat attached.

I shake my head.

He watches me longer than he should.Not like he’s weighing his options—like he’s trying to understand something he didn’t expect to want.

Whatever it is, he doesn’t name it.Just picks up the oars.

He rows us back.

I watch his hands.His shoulders.The shallow pull of his breath, as though even exhaustion is something he won’t let win.

We don’t speak.

He ties the boat off like he plans to use it again.Then heads for the car without looking back.

We get in.Same car.Same road.

Different weight.

We return just before dawn.The house is still.Bleach in the air.Something else, too—something warmer.

Lived-in.Or ruined.Hard to tell the difference at this hour.

He locks the door behind us, then stands there like the air hasn’t shifted.Like the last few hours didn’t cost him something.

As though he’s not deciding whether letting me come was a mistake.

I pass him without a word.

Back down the hall.Back to the bed.

I don’t look over my shoulder.Don’t ask if he’s coming.

But I leave the door open.

Not because I want him to.

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