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As if this is what she expected.

Worse—like it’s what shewanted.

I drop the wrench.Strip off the shirt that’s now ruined.Blood’s already drying on my forearm.

She tilts her head, just slightly.

“Your timing,” I say.“Not great.”

She shrugs.

Then turns and walks back down the hall.

Not triumphant.Just moving forward—like this was inevitable.

Like she always knew it wouldn’t end with a confession or a body in the tub—but with something I didn’t plan for.A decision that couldn’t be undone.

I stand there, shirt soaked through, hand cramping from the grip I never released.Covered in proof I fucked up.

The wrench drops.

Not out of guilt.

Out of physics.

Because this isn’t about the truth anymore.

It’s about a story that’s moving faster than I can revise it.

24

Marlowe

He locks the door behind him this time.I hear the deadbolt grind.

Then the click of the hallway light.

Then nothing.

Until the footsteps come.

Harder than before.Slower.

When he opens the door to my room, his shirt is gone and there’s blood drying on his arms.Not enough to be panic-inducing.Just enough to say he didn’t plan ahead.

His eyes sweep the room like he’s expecting me to be halfway out the window.

I’m not.

I’m sitting on the floor with my legs crossed, calmly towel-drying my hair with a pillowcase I ripped off the bed.The actual towels are gone.His doing.Punishment that says everything without speaking a word.

He stares.

“I told you not to come out.”

“I didn’t,” I say.“He came in.”

That makes his jaw tighten.