Page 12 of Peak Cruelty

Vance

S even days. That’s what the house owed me. Nothing more.

But nothing ever breaks the way it’s meant to.

Especially not her.

She didn’t talk last night. Didn’t beg. Didn’t try to bargain. She just looked at me like she knew something I didn’t.

I haven’t stopped thinking about that.

It should’ve been fear. Not calculus.

The sun’s barely up when I hear it—gravel shift outside. Not the wind. Not a fox nosing through trash. Weight. Not curious—committed. Shoes.

I move to the security feed, swipe the screen. There’s a van parked at the bottom of the drive. Unmarked. White.

Then—movement. A man. Mid-forties. Hat. Tool belt.

He’s not lost. Not casing. Too confident for that. He’s here for a reason. A task. Something preloaded in his schedule.

No one should be here. I was promised privacy. It is my honeymoon, after all.

And that’s the problem.

I reach in my bag. Not for a weapon— yet . Just a wrench. Heavy enough to end a conversation, if it comes to that.

Her eyes track me. Every move. Every muscle. As though she’s memorizing my posture, not just my face. Not concerned—focused.

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up if I were you.”

I nod toward the door. “You won’t like the results.”

She doesn’t answer, but I catch it—a flicker at the edge of her expression. Like a new equation just landed in her lap.

I open the door before he can knock.

He startles, turns fast—then laughs like this is normal. As though I’m not one second from driving him through the railing.

“Morning,” he says, easy. “Didn’t mean to catch you off guard.”

I don’t answer. Because I know how I sound when I’m angry. And it’s not useful yet.

“Got a work order,” he goes on. “Shower drain or something. Just a quick look.”

I nod once. Step outside. Let the door close behind me.

“That’s odd. I was promised privacy. It’s my honeymoon. We only need one shower. And it’s working fine.”

He pulls out his phone, scrolls like it means something. I glance once—just enough to see he’s got a real service app open. Could be real. Could be good planning.

I don’t look down again. I’m watching his eyes.

They don’t twitch. Don’t scan the house. No backup. No badge.

Maybe he's legit. Maybe not.

There’s a beat. He shrugs, as though that makes perfect sense, then keeps scrolling. Eyes flick once toward the garage. Curiosity passes over his features. “That’s odd. Says right here I’m supposed to complete the work today.”

I tighten my grip on the wrench. Just in case this turns.

I could kill him. Easily. Quietly. Drag the body out to the bluff. Let the ocean do what it does best.

But I don’t. Not yet.

Because there’s a chance this is coincidence. A work order from whoever actually owns the place.

He’s just doing his job.

And I’ve got bigger problems than a corpse with DrainCo credentials.

“Tell you what,” I say. “Come back next week. We’ll be gone by then.”

His smile falters. He hesitates. He wants to argue, but decides the paycheck’s not worth the scene.

“Sure thing,” he says, turning back to the van. “I’ll just mark the order incomplete.”

I watch him all the way down the drive.

He doesn’t look back.

I don’t move until the taillights disappear.

Leave it to fate to show up in a work van and khakis.

Back inside, the air feels different.

Down the hall, she hasn’t moved. Eyes open. Watching the ceiling like it might offer answers.

She looks over at me. Doesn’t say anything.

But she knows. The look in her eyes says it all: you’re not as untouchable as you think.

I take the plate of food I brought and drop it in the trash—louder than necessary. Let her hear what she’s not getting. Because she’s not wrong. And that’s the problem. The more she gets right, the faster this needs to end.

I watch her for a long second. “Today’s not your lucky day, I’m afraid.”

She doesn’t respond. Just turns her attention back to the ceiling, which is confirmation enough.

I move to the side of the bed. No threats. No noise. Just presence.

“You should know something,” I say.

She shifts—just slightly—but it’s enough.

“You flinch better than you lie.”

This time, she looks at me.

Not like a victim.

Like she’s wondering how many of my bones she can break from where she’s lying.

And I almost admire that. Almost.

Then she says it—soft, as though it’s not meant for me.

“They never check just once.”

I smile, not because it’s funny.

Because I don’t know if she means the guy with van.

Or someone else.