Page 10 of Peak Cruelty

Vance

“Y ou don’t look like a mother,” I say. “Not the kind you fight for or mourn, anyway.”

If it stings, she doesn’t show it.

She watches me like she’s mapping my skull. Not to read it. To break it. Smart. But useless. Let her trace the edges. Let her clock the distance, the weight of the chair, the fact that the room is empty except for us. Let her build a map that goes nowhere.

I stay seated.

She stares at me as though I’m the only part of this she hasn’t already solved. Not the room. Not the restraints. Me.

I should enjoy that. I usually do. But there’s something about the way she does it—quiet, steady—that feels less like fear and more like calculus. She’s not wondering how to get out. She’s wondering how I got this far without being stopped.

“Good, you’re awake,” I say, voice smooth as a glove just before the grip tightens. “Consent’s not required. But awareness? That’s where the fun is.”

She doesn’t react. Not a tell in sight. Most of them try something by now. A scream. A sob. A story. She thinks she’s special, that she’s different. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am.

“You made yourself easy to find,” I continue. “Easy to predict.”

I get nothing. She might as well be comatose.

“I watched you for weeks,” I say. “Every lie. Every loop. Every angle.”

She stares straight ahead. I guess she’s already figured out I don’t need her alive to make a point.

“Ava, right? Sweet girl. Quiet. She doesn’t cry—not in public anyway.”

That one lands. It’s a flicker—fast, nearly nothing—but I see it. A shift in the way her mouth holds. A skip in her breath.

“I know where your daughter is right now.”

She sucks in her bottom lip. An odd reaction, but it’s obvious I’m getting to her.

“I know the exact minute she gets dropped off. I know what window you stand behind, pretending you’re already gone,” I say. “I know the stories you tell. The ones you want people to believe. The ones you’ve posted for sympathy. For likes. For donations .”

Her jaw tightens. Good. Now, we’re getting somewhere. Anger is easier to work with than apathy.

She lets out a dry laugh, her eyes narrowing. “So this is your idea of ‘rage’? This is what gets you off?”

I don’t react. Not the way she wants. But that little spark, that irritation— that triggers the edge of my voice. “This isn’t rage,” I say. “Rage would’ve left you in a ditch. This? This is me walking you through it. Slow.”

I let the word hang in the air like a sentence. Not a threat. Not a choice.

“You want people to believe you're strong. Brave. A mother fighting for her child. But it’s not about her, is it? It's about you. It’s always been about you.”

I take a step closer. Not fast. Just enough.

“No one’s coming, by the way. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”

She shifts again, barely. But I know the signs. She’s scared. And she should be.

I crouch next to the bed, eyes level with hers.

“You're not here because you lied,” I say. “You're here because you thought you could get away with it.”

Pause.

“And because I plan to prove otherwise.”

I watch her face. The control. The effort. She’s holding it all in, but it’s cracking at the edges. That’s where the real work begins.

She tenses against the leather straps—trying to bring blood flow back—but she doesn’t speak. And she doesn’t break eye contact.

That’s new.

“I don’t need a full confession,” I say. “Just an acknowledgment. That you know what you are. That you understand the damage you’ve done.”

She holds. Not stoic—calculated. She’s gauging how much longer she has to pretend I’m not speaking to her.

I’ve had people beg with less pressure than this. Cry for forgiveness they didn’t mean. Offer their families. Their faith. Their bodies.

She gives me nothing. Not even the courtesy of a reaction.

“I’m not here to punish you,” I say, letting the words settle between us. “I’m here to give you what you wouldn’t stop asking for.”

Her lips twitch—just a fraction—before the smile disappears. I can’t even name it. It’s gone before it even registers.

“I’ll give you one chance to admit what you’ve done.”

She doesn’t.

I lean in, close enough to feel the heat of her skin—hot and damp. Close enough for her to feel it: the weight of the moment, the pull of inevitability. I place my hand on the edge of the mattress, just barely touching the fabric.

Her pulse jumps, stuttering under my fingers.

“You have no idea what I’m willing to do,” I say, letting the words sit heavy in the air. “No idea how far I’ll go to get to the truth.”

The charge isn’t there. The tension that should be crackling in the space between us feels…off. I should be feeling the final twist, the crack before the break.

Instead, I feel her watching me. Not fear. Not defiance. Something… different. It looks like pity.

And that’s the part that fucks with me.

I shift back, not to withdraw, but to reset—the space has grown smaller, and I need a breath. I turn toward the door, fingers trailing slowly along the frame.

“I’ll give you tonight,” I say, and it sounds like a promise. As though it’s something I’m offering her. “To think it over.”

I glance over my shoulder, just once, meeting her eyes.

“After that, your body talks for you.”

I turn the doorknob, pause.

“And if you lie,” I say, without looking back, “you’ll wish I’d just killed you now.”

The door slams shut behind me.

I wait—just one beat—to hear the scream.

They always scream.

She doesn’t.

And that silence? It’s not strength. It’s contempt. I feel it. Like rot in the walls.

I stand there, hand still on the knob, jaw locked so tight it clicks.

This was supposed to be the part where she breaks.

Instead, something else just did.