Page 62 of Peak Cruelty

Marlowe

I t’s been twenty-three days. New city. New job.

New name on the lease. This is what happens when you run.

When you leave the only home you’ve ever known.

When you leave your sister dead in the street and slip into the woods like you were never there at all—just so you don’t have to answer too many questions.

Ava went to live with her dad’s parents. Which was probably always in her best interest. They have a big yard. A real dining table. No shady boyfriends. Or girlfriends, for that matter. A lot of loss in a short amount of time. But grief’s never been one for pacing.

It doesn’t knock. It just lets itself in and rearranges the furniture.

Now I don’t talk much. Don’t go out after dark unless I’ve already mapped the exits.

I live in a one-bedroom walkup above a nail salon that opens too early and closes too late.

The rent’s paid weekly. In cash. The neighbors don’t ask questions.

The walls are thin enough that I hear everything, and that’s a comfort now.

Silence feels suspicious. It’s what came before the shot.

The woman across the hall leaves for work at 7:14 every morning.

She works at a bakery two blocks south. I know her name.

I know her schedule. I know she’s cheating on her boyfriend with the guy who delivers flour.

She hums the same song when she’s nervous—some old pop hit slowed down like grief.

She has no idea I watch her. That’s the point.

I pay attention now. The way Vance did.

Not because I want to. Because what else is there to do?

They say once you know a thing, you can’t unknow it. I wish that were a lie. It’s not.

I know who in this building leaves their keys in the door too long. Who takes delivery without checking the bag. Who always wears earbuds, even when crossing the street like they’re immune. The ones who forget they’re fragile. The ones who wouldn’t survive being chosen.

I’ve lost weight. I don’t notice until the hardware store clerk makes a comment about “women like me not eating enough.” I almost laugh. Not because it’s funny. Because he’s right—and still not close to the reason why.

The job is fine. Temp work. Data entry for a startup. Mostly I sit at a shared desk and click through flagged reports. Shipments that vanished. Nothing interesting.

The manager’s name is Ross. He’s got too many teeth and a wedding ring he forgets to take off when he flirts. I watch him flirt with the girl who sits three rows down. I time how long she takes to fake-laugh. She’s getting slower.

I make mental notes. Not because I care. Because it’s a reflex now.

Every night I come home and take the same path upstairs. Two left turns, one right. Keys between my fingers. I check the deadbolt twice.

Then I sit down and open the black book.

I found it tucked halfway under the seat in Rachel’s car.

I didn’t open it for five days.

When I finally did, I couldn’t stop.

Each page is the same. A name. A city. A timestamp. Nothing more. Nothing less. Some of them are coded. Some of them aren’t. But the meaning comes through. Just like it did the first time I read it in that shitty motel.

The first time I managed to open it again, I felt sick. The second time, I felt rage. The third time, I understood.

They were patterns. All of them.

Like the ones he saw in me.

Sure, he got it wrong and by then it was too late.

But now I see them, too.

In faces. In habits. In mistakes no one thinks twice about.

I see the lies people leave on their doormats.

The guilt they carry in their posture.

The need in their fingertips when they hand over cash like it’s an apology.

I don’t believe in monsters anymore.

Not the kind you can outrun.

Just choices.

Some you make.

Some you inherit.

I memorize the list. Not because I plan to do anything with it. That’s what I tell myself.

But every night I come back to it.

I trace the letters with my nail. I see him again—standing in that doorway, looking at me like he didn’t know which version of my story he wanted to believe: his or mine.

I replay the way he looked at me when he opened that bedroom door, when he finally figured it out.

I remember the photo of us that day on the beach—the one I told myself I wasn’t going to find online, but did.

I haven’t made a move. Not yet.

But I will.

I’ve started watching again. Not out of vengeance. Out of certainty.

That I’m not who I was. That she wouldn’t survive this world. That there’s no going back. That I can’t unknow.

The letter’s still on the counter where it has been since I got the keys to this place. Vance left it in the passenger seat, folded so precisely it looked military. “Just in case,” the front said. That was all. Just in case.

Rachel asked if I wanted to open it that night. That’s the reason she pulled over.

I said no.

I said I wasn’t ready.

But the truth is—I didn’t want it to change anything. I didn’t want it to make it real. Didn’t want it to explain him, or make me miss him more, or worse—make me forgive him.

He was cruel. And right. And wrong. And mine, in a way no one else ever will be.

Tonight, I take the letter from the counter. Lay it flat on the table. I don’t cry. I don’t breathe heavy. I just sit.

Then I reach for the fold.

And I open it.