Page 61 of Peak Cruelty

Marlowe

W e’re halfway down the road when Rachel grabs her phone.

Sirens wail in the distance, muffled by smoke and adrenaline. I’m shaking beside her, eyes unfocused, breathing like it hurts—because it does.

Rachel, still high on proximity to violence, flips the camera to selfie mode.

Laughs. Breathless.

“I can’t believe this—us, escaping the cartel or whatever—Jesus, we need a Netflix deal.”

She’s mid-recording when I turn to her, panicked. “I’m going back.”

Rachel doesn’t hesitate. Reaches over. Unbuckles. Throws the door open.

To stop me?

To make a point?

To get a better angle?

Doesn’t matter.

The van hits her before she finishes the sentence.

Hard. Fast. No warning.

Not a bullet.

Not revenge.

Just a delivery van on its normal route.

The scream comes from the driver.

Rachel drops. The phone clatters beside her. Still recording.

That’s the part that goes viral.