Page 75 of Peak Cruelty

I glance at the GPS.“It’s faster.”

She sighs.Low.Noncommittal, as though she knows that’s not the question she asked.

We hit a 24-hour gas station around two.She stays in the car.I go in.Pay cash.No receipt.Just caffeine, protein bars, something sweet I think she might want.The clerk doesn’t look up.I like him for that.

Back in the car, she cracks open a soda, takes a sip, and then wipes the lip before offering it to me.

I take it.Finish it off.Hope it and the adrenaline will keep me awake.

By three, the road goes flat; dark.Motel signs start cropping up like regrets—cheap, lit, and unavoidable.I pick one that looks like it hasn’t been robbed in the last week.Neon blinking just enough to say we’re open, when it should saykeep going.

Room key’s tied to a board too large to lose.Door’s aluminum.Interior’s beige with a vengeance.

I drop the bag.She kicks off her shoes.

Neither of us says what we’re thinking.We don’t have to.And, besides, what would be the point?

She heads to the bathroom.I sit on the edge of the bed like I’m still deciding whether to sleep or disappear.

The faucet runs.I hear her brushing her teeth.Decide to stay.

When she comes out, she’s wearing a shirt that used to be mine.Still fits her better.

She doesn’t crawl into bed.Just stands there, arms crossed.

“You ever get tired of pretending you’re not scared?”

I look up.“No.I get tired of being right.”

She nods.Once.Like that’s fair.

“But sometimes you’re wrong.”

“Sometimes I am,” I say and for a second, looking at her, I think maybe we could make a run for it.Try out woodworking or some other mundane hobby for people with too much time on their hands.I think, maybe we could make a go of this.“But it’s rare.”

“You know I could just say I went with you willingly.That we went off grid.Just got back.”

I smile, even though I know it’ll never work.That much attention, and I’m done.I’d have to live an entirely different life.Hard to live in the shadows, hard to do what I do, when your face is plastered all over the evening news.And I’m not ready to change who I am.I may never be.“We’ll see.”

“I guess we will.”

She turns off the light.Climbs in.Back to me.Close, but not touching.

And I lay there in the dark, counting ceiling tiles I can’t see, trying not to think about the photo she doesn’t know I saved.

Trying not to think about what it means that I did.

38

Marlowe

The storm catches up to us.I can’t sleep.The bed’s too springy, the walls too thin, and the air smells like mildew and old AC—as though someone tried to cover a spill with time.Vance passed out an hour ago, the kind of sleep that looks earned.Heavy.Dreamless.He hasn’t moved since.

I’m on the floor, cross-legged.Motel lamp turned to low.Puzzle spread out in front of me like I’m six and grounded, except this time I stole it.Swiped the box off a shelf in the rental before we left.It’s missing edge pieces.I like it better that way.

Not that it matters.The notebook has my attention.It wasn’t hidden.Not really.Tucked beneath a folded shirt in the duffel he never actually zips all the way.As if he’s daring someone to look.

I did.

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