Page 31 of Peak Cruelty

Marlowe

H e wakes me with a nudge and a single word.

“Shoes.”

No explanation. No tone. Just that.

A hoodie hits the bed a second later, followed by a zip-tie he doesn’t bother hiding.

“Don’t run,” he says. “If you do, I break your knee and leave you in the trunk. You won’t die tonight, but you’ll wish you had.”

I believe him. I stand.

We move fast. Out the back. Across the gravel. The air’s wet and sharp. Moonlight catches the tarp by the garage door—wrapped tight, sealed.

The body’s waiting.

He opens the hatch. Not a word. Just hands me gloves.

Thin latex. Cold.

We lift together. It takes coordination. Pressure. Trust.

Not the emotional kind. The physical kind. The kind that says: if I drop this, I’m the next one in.

He doesn’t look at me, but I feel him thinking.

He’s wondering what kind of woman helps carry a body without needing to be told.

I want to know what kind of man invites her.

We load the body into the trunk of a sedan—dark, unremarkable. He opens the passenger door for me like it’s a date.

I get in. No hesitation.

Not because I trust him. Because I want to see what he does next.

The drive is short, but stretched.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t glance over. Doesn’t fill the space with threats.

But the silence isn’t empty.

It’s aware.

Like both of us know there’s a before and after to what’s about to happen.

We turn off the main road. Sand pings the undercarriage. Deer shadows flicker past the headlights.

Then the trees open, and we’re there.

Boat ramp. Old. Splintered. The kind of place that doesn’t show up on maps anymore.

The water’s black, choppy, tidal. Less like a sea, more like an appetite.

He kills the engine. Gets out. Opens the trunk.

We unload. Together.

The tarp isn’t heavy. It’s dense.

He gives me one corner. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t warn.

I don’t ask, either. I carry my end.

The boat’s tied to a rotting dock. Fiberglass. Quiet.

He climbs in. Then looks at me.

“In.”

Just that.

I step in. It rocks under my weight. He steadies it without touching me.

Then picks up the oars and rows. As though he’s done this a million times.

Out where the water pulls harder, he stops rowing, sets the oars aside. There’s no sound but the tide hitting wood.

He secures the weights. Fast. Practiced. Not careless.

Then the body goes over.

Silent. Final.

Gone.

He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t watch it sink. Just starts wiping down the interior with a rag that smells like bleach and vinegar.

I sit still. Let him work.

When he finishes, he tosses the rag overboard. It floats. Then sinks.

He turns to me.

“You cold?”

It’s the first time he’s asked me anything that doesn’t have a threat attached.

I shake my head.

He watches me longer than he should. Not like he’s weighing his options—like he’s trying to understand something he didn’t expect to want.

Whatever it is, he doesn’t name it. Just picks up the oars.

He rows us back.

I watch his hands. His shoulders. The shallow pull of his breath, as though even exhaustion is something he won’t let win.

We don’t speak.

He ties the boat off like he plans to use it again. Then heads for the car without looking back.

We get in. Same car. Same road.

Different weight.

We return just before dawn. The house is still. Bleach in the air. Something else, too—something warmer.

Lived-in. Or ruined. Hard to tell the difference at this hour.

He locks the door behind us, then stands there like the air hasn’t shifted. Like the last few hours didn’t cost him something.

As though he’s not deciding whether letting me come was a mistake.

I pass him without a word.

Back down the hall. Back to the bed.

I don’t look over my shoulder. Don’t ask if he’s coming.

But I leave the door open.

Not because I want him to.

Just to see if he will.