Page 66 of Peak Cruelty

Marlowe

S he’s late today.

That’s the first break in the pattern.

Maybe she argued with the doctor. Maybe the front desk asked one too many questions. Doesn’t matter.

She’s holding the kid’s hand tighter than usual. Not like a mother. Like a leash.

I follow.

Half a block behind. Same side of the street.

She orders a smoothie. Tells the kid he can’t have any. Says it’s “for mommy’s blood sugar.” Then complains about the price loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Six dollars for fruit and ice?” she says, already pulling out a metal straw from her purse like this is a whole routine. “You’d think I was asking them to juice a diamond.”

She points to a teenager behind the counter and says, “Last time it wasn’t this much. Are you guys just making it up now?”

The kid tugs at her sleeve. She swats his hand away without looking. “Can you stop? Seriously. Mommy is trying to deal with incompetence.”

Then to the barista: “He’s allergic to strawberries. Don’t mess it up. If you send him into anaphylaxis, it’s on you.”

The kid doesn’t look allergic. He looks tired. And hungry. And like this is every Thursday.

She makes a show of checking the ingredients again, sighs like a martyr, then leans against the counter and starts filming herself.

“Hey guys,” she says into her phone, already smiling.

“Quick reminder that self-care isn’t selfish.

I almost didn’t come out tonight, but here I am, showing up for me. ”

She pans the camera toward the kid. He flinches. She tilts the phone back to her face. “Anyway, just a little midweek motivation?—”

I walk out before I do something I’ll regret. Round the corner and take several deep breaths. Think about making a reservation back at the cliffside rental. See if I can find a wheelchair. I miss Vance so much it feels like I’m having a heart attack. Realize that idea’s not going to work.

She leaves the shop and cuts down the alley like she always does. Shortcut to the lot behind her apartment. A quiet stretch. Just dumpsters and back doors.

She’s predictable.

Until she’s not.

She spins, halfway through. Maybe a noise. Maybe a shadow. She doesn’t see me. Not yet.

But she knows someone’s there.

She starts walking faster.

So do I.

When she reaches her car, she fumbles the keys. Snaps at the kid. Yanks the door open.

She never sees me coming.

Not until it’s too late.

And even then, she doesn’t scream.

She just says, “What the fuck—” like entitlement will save her.

It won’t.

My voice is calm. Detached.

“You left bruises.”

“What? What are you?—”

“Every Thursday. New story. Different injury.”

She tries to slam the door.

I catch it.

She raises the keys like a weapon.

“Who are you?”

She says it like she deserves an answer.

I step forward.

She tries again to close the door. I hold it open.

“I know what you are,” I say.

Her face shifts. Not guilty—angry. Like she’s about to lecture me.

I don’t give her the chance.

I press the folder into her chest. The photos inside. The screenshots. The date-stamped records. The paper trail she was sure no one would ever put together.

She swallows like it burns.

“I don’t know what this is,” she says, but her voice is shaking.

“You will.”