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“Does it matter?I’m going to die either way.”

I stare.

She doesn’t move.Doesn’t speak again.

Just sits there, as if she’s waiting for me to prove her right.

There’s sweat in my collar now.From what, exactly?A lie?A lame attempt at waterboarding?A woman who’s wasting my time?

I step back.

Think about my next move.

I thought she’d break easily.Or at least easier than this.

She hasn’t.

And I’m tired.Not the kind that sleep fixes.

Too much time.Too much energy.Too much money.For a woman who’s done nothing but waste all of it.

So I nod once.Wipe my hand on a towel.

“Clean yourself up,” I say.“You’re starting to smell.”

And then I leave her—on the bathroom floor, soaked, shivering, and possibly still a liar.

That should’ve been enough.

It wasn’t.

22

Marlowe

The doorknob is cool against my palm.

He didn’t lock it.Of course he didn’t.That would’ve made this too easy.He wants to see what I’ll do.

I open the door and step out barefoot, dripping, naked.Not shivering anymore.Just clean, like something freshly wiped before being used again.The hallway light reflects off the wet tile, the wet skin, the sharp edge of what's about to happen.

He’s at the sink.He doesn’t turn.

But he hears me.I know he does.

I walk across the floor like a standard house cat, like I own the place.Like shame doesn’t stick to wet skin.Let him smell what he almost did.Let him look, or try not to.

He keeps his back to me.

“The towel’s in the bathroom,” he says, voice low.

I let it hang.Then softer—calibrated to make him still—”You were right.”

It’s the sentence men like him spend their whole lives trying to earn.

That’s what makes him turn.Not a crash.Not a scream.Just the tone women use when they’ve finally decided to give up.

He turns slowly, as though he’s afraid this is a trick, as if he knows it is and still can’t help himself.