Page 60 of Peak Cruelty

Marlowe

I run.

Not because I’m brave. Not because I’m strong. Because there’s nothing else to do. Because if I stay, I’m just another body beside his. And I already owe too much.

The shot is still ringing when my shoes hit the grass. I don’t look back. I can’t. If I do, I’ll stop. If I stop, I’ll die.

The men behind me shout. At each other, not at me. Like I’m the afterthought they didn’t plan for. They didn’t think I’d run. They don’t know what to do with that.

It buys me time.

I cut through the trees like the air’s gone sharp. My lungs burn. My legs don’t feel like mine. But I keep going.

Because he told me to.

Because it’s the only thing left I can do.

Branches claw my arms. I trip over rocks, roots, whatever’s in the way. Doesn’t matter. I don’t stop until I collapse behind the treeline.

The sound of the house is gone. So is the shouting. It’s just me now. Me and the mark on my wrist. I press my thumb to it like it’s a button that might rewind all of this. It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t.

The mark is still raw. Raised. Like it’s remembering for me.

I push myself up.

There’s a slope ahead. Gravel crunching. I can’t see it yet, but I know what it is.

The road.

And then?—

Headlights.

A car. A familiar car and a familiar person.

Rachel.

I stumble out into the clearing like a ghost. She’s in the driver’s seat like she knew I’d be coming. Like she didn’t doubt it for a second.

I pound on the window. “He’s still alive—I have to go back. Please. You have to help me.”

She stares at me. Doesn’t move. Chews at her bottom lip.

“Rach—I have to go back.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I left him. Rachel, I left him. I didn’t even—he was still breathing. He told me to run, but he didn’t mean?—”

“He meant it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” She reaches over and opens the door. I slide in, chest heaving. “Get in before we both get killed.”

“Help me.”

“I am.”

“This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have left him.”

She looks at me, jaw clenched. “You made it out. Don’t be stupid enough to go back in.”

“I owe him.”

“Your death is not going to help him, Mar?—”

My hands are shaking. My whole body is. I grip the dash like it’ll anchor me.

Rachel shifts the car into drive. “If you’re still breathing, it means he did what he came to do.”

“I could’ve?—”

“You couldn’t have saved him.” Her voice is flat. Final. “You know that.”

I don’t answer.

Because she’s right.

I press my palm to my mouth, try to swallow whatever’s clawing its way up my throat. It’s not grief. Not yet. It’s something older. Sharper.

We drive.

And I don’t look back.

Not because I don’t want to—because if I do, I’ll make her turn around. I’ll jump out. I’ll undo everything he just did…except the one thing I can’t.