Page 35 of Peak Cruelty

Marlowe

T he tiles are cold under my feet. My thighs ache, and I can still feel the imprint of the floor on my back. The room smells like sex and overbrewed coffee. There’s a crack in the grout near the sink. I stare at it longer than I should.

He’s gone—into the garage or wherever men like him go to keep their hands busy when they’re avoiding the truth.

I stand slowly. Everything inside me feels shifted. I’ve been used before. This is different. This felt like worship, if the god hated himself.

The house is quiet. I move from room to room. Not snooping—just looking for something to do.

Living room. Neutral tones. Art that fits a place like this. The couch looks as though its never been sat on. The remote placed dead center on the coffee table like props.

Down the hallway, I pass the guest room. The bed’s been made. Sheets stiff. Closet empty.

The hallway closet is next. I open it. Coats. Two. One heavy, one light. I check the pockets. Nothing in them. Just fabric and dust.

There’s a phone charger coiled at the back of the shelf. I pick it up. Turn it over. Consider it. Then put it back.

Sometimes freedom looks a lot like good fortune, but it’s a test, if not a trap.

I reach the front door. Press my palm against it. Cool. Still.

I twist the lock—not all the way. Just enough to feel the give. Just enough to know I could.

I could leave. I could. Now. Walk straight out and keep walking. I could find a gas station. A stranger. A phone. I could make it home.

But if he fucks me like that again—just once—maybe that’s worth it.

I turn away.

On my way back, I catch sight of myself in the hallway mirror.

Skin flushed. Chest marked. Nothing accidental. A bruise starting low on my hip. My hair’s a mess. Lips bitten. Eyes bright.

I don’t look broken.

I look fed.

I return to the kitchen. The counters are wiped clean, but the smell still lingers—coffee, bacon, him.

I lean against the counter and watch the clock. Not because I’m waiting.

Because I want him to come back hungry.

He does. But not exactly the way I think.

“Sit,” he says.

He makes coffee like he does everything else—measured, exact. Like the only ritual he still trusts is one that ends in boiling water.

I don’t speak at first. Just sit on the barstool by the counter and let the smell fill the silence. He doesn’t look at me, but he pours two cups.

He slides a mug across the counter. Black, no sugar. He’s been paying attention.

“So,” he says, “Robert. Tell me about him.”

“Careful. You’re close to ruining the best coffee I’ve had in weeks.”

“Holy matrimony that bad?”

“He’s not my husband.”

That earns a look.

“He’s my boyfriend,” I say. “Technically, my loan officer.”

He doesn’t ask for more. He just waits.

“I met him when I was young. Twenty. He was older. Smarter. Knew how to listen.” I wrap my hands around the mug as if it might anchor me. “At first, he made me feel like I’d invented the world. After a while, he made me feel like I owed him for it.”

Vance doesn’t nod. Doesn’t interject. Just watches my face. “It wasn’t always bad,” I say. “That’s the worst part. People always ask why you don’t leave. They never ask why you stay. Sometimes, the answer’s the same.”

I take a sip. The coffee’s hot. Bitter. Perfect.

There’s a long pause.

He finally speaks. “You love him.”

It’s not a question. “I can’t not love him. He’s the kind of man who teaches you that love has conditions—and they’re always changing.”

His expression shifts, just barely. Enough to tell me I’ve hit something familiar.

“And you?” I say, eager to end the conversation. “You mentioned your mom was sick…and she made you believe you were, too.”

“Munchausen by proxy,” he says. “I didn’t learn the term until I was older. By then it was already over. At least the part with doctors and medicine.”

“But not the damage.”

“No,” he says. “Not that.”

I drain the rest of my coffee. Set the mug down.

“You think you’re past it,” he adds. “But then something small happens. A smell. A sound. Someone says something that doesn’t add up. And suddenly you’re ten again.”

“You should get groceries,” I say. “We’re out of things that count as food.”

His voice comes slower this time. “You think I’m going to leave you here alone?”

I shrug. “I think if you stay, one of us is going to do something we can’t take back.”

He doesn’t answer.

Just watches me like he’s hoping I’ll be the first.

And for a second, I think maybe I will.