Page 69 of Peak Cruelty

Rachel’s still out there.Killing her kid slowly.

But she’s not the only one I need to keep an eye on.

I need to fix this.I know that.

Just not today.

Today, I watch the door.

To see if Marlowe tries to run.

To see if I let her.Or what happens if I don’t.

34

Marlowe

The tiles are cold under my feet.My thighs ache, and I can still feel the imprint of the floor on my back.The room smells like sex and overbrewed coffee.There’s a crack in the grout near the sink.I stare at it longer than I should.

He’s gone—into the garage or wherever men like him go to keep their hands busy when they’re avoiding the truth.

I stand slowly.Everything inside me feels shifted.I’ve been used before.This is different.This felt like worship, if the god hated himself.

The house is quiet.I move from room to room.Not snooping—just looking for something to do.

Living room.Neutral tones.Art that fits a place like this.The couch looks as though its never been sat on.The remote placed dead center on the coffee table like props.

Down the hallway, I pass the guest room.The bed’s been made.Sheets stiff.Closet empty.

The hallway closet is next.I open it.Coats.Two.One heavy, one light.I check the pockets.Nothing in them.Just fabric and dust.

There’s a phone charger coiled at the back of the shelf.I pick it up.Turn it over.Consider it.Then put it back.

Sometimes freedom looks a lot like good fortune, but it’s a test, if not a trap.

I reach the front door.Press my palm against it.Cool.Still.

I twist the lock—not all the way.Just enough to feel the give.Just enough to know Icould.

I could leave.I could.Now.Walk straight out and keep walking.I could find a gas station.A stranger.A phone.I could make it home.

But if he fucks me like that again—just once—maybe that’s worth it.

I turn away.

On my way back, I catch sight of myself in the hallway mirror.

Skin flushed.Chest marked.Nothing accidental.A bruise starting low on my hip.My hair’s a mess.Lips bitten.Eyes bright.

I don’t look broken.

I look fed.

I return to the kitchen.The counters are wiped clean, but the smell still lingers—coffee, bacon, him.

I lean against the counter and watch the clock.Not because I’m waiting.

Because I want him to come back hungry.

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