Page 92 of Peak Cruelty

“Yes.”The smile fades.“All of it.”

He reaches across the table and takes my hand.His grip is cool.Steady.Familiar in the worst way.“But you’re better now.”

“Yes.”

He squeezes once.“That’s my girl.”

He watches me a beat too long.Then:

“Do you remember how we met?”

I don’t answer.

He continues anyway.

“You were twenty-one.Maybe twenty-two.I never did get the real answer.”His smile sharpens, tender as a blade.“You were at the blackjack table in that piss-yellow casino in Reno.Owing money to the wrong men.”

He gives a small laugh, like it’s romantic.

“Three thousand dollars,” he says.“That’s all it took.Three grand, and they would’ve broken your hand or worse.”

He slices into his salmon with quiet precision.

“You looked so scared.Like no one had ever bet on you before.You remember what you said to me?”

He doesn’t wait.“You said, ‘If you help me, I’ll do anything.’”

He raises his eyebrows at the memory.

“Anything.And you meant it.”

He gestures broadly.“Look at us now.”

I look at my plate.

Three thousand dollars.That’s all it took to own me.

After lunch, I’m given a journal.A fresh pen.A task:Write down three things you’re grateful for today.

I write:

1.A shower.

2.Lunch with Robert.

3.I’m getting better.

That night, I eat dinner on my own.The same woman in pastels tucks the sheet under my chin like I’m made of glass.She brushes a strand of hair from my face.

“You’re doing so well,” she whispers.

I smile again.Just enough.

When she leaves, I count ten full minutes.

Then I slip out of bed.

I walk to the wall behind the headboard.

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