Page 16 of Peak Cruelty

Vance

T he wheelchair’s been in the hall closet since the day we arrived. Folded, clean. Wrapped in plastic. Labeled in red ink: MOBILITY AID—FULL SUPPORT.

It was never meant for her.

But plans change.

And I don’t waste resources.

She watches me wheel it into the room. Doesn’t speak. Just keeps her eyes on the floor like she knows this moment deserves reverence—or disgust. Hard to say which.

“Get up.”

She doesn’t.

I move to the bed and reach for the restraints. No sudden movements. I’m not trying to startle her. Not yet.

“This seems like an awful lot of work,” she says, nodding at the chair, “for a confession.”

“You’ll make it worth it, I’m sure.”

Her arms are stiff when I unbuckle them. Legs slower. Blood rushing back like it’s reluctant to help her. She stays seated, rubbing her wrists, staring at the chair like it’s a prophecy she doesn’t like.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Still, nothing. Then, finally: “Why?”

Just one syllable. But it cuts.

I crouch beside the bed. “Because that’s what happens when you pretend not to see. Eventually, someone makes you look.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not Rachel.”

“No. You’re worse.”

That lands.

I wait.

“Rachel lies. But you—you just stood by. You knew what was happening and you allowed it. Maybe because it was easier. Maybe because you thought it wasn’t your place.”

Her lips part. I don’t let her speak.

“You tell yourself you were being loyal. That it wasn’t your business. But I’ve seen that kind of loyalty before. It isn’t love. It’s self-preservation.”

She swallows hard.

I gesture toward the wheelchair. “It’s time you see what it’s like.”

She laughs. Not loud. Not amused, either. More like disbelief trying to find a place to land.

“You’re serious.”

I nod once. “It’s time you see what it feels like to be helpless. To rely on someone else to decide whether you eat. Whether you piss. Whether you see daylight.”

She sighs and shakes her head like she knows there’s only one way this is going to go. She’s smart, I’ll give her that.

I take her arm. Firmly.

She pulls back, more instinct than fight.

“You can walk,” I say. “But if you do, I shoot you in the spine. You’ll end up in that chair either way.”

I give her a second.

Finally, she nods and inches into the chair.

She doesn’t ask where we’re going, or what comes next.

She already knows it doesn’t matter.

The straps snap into place across her chest and legs. Not tight. Just enough to hold. Enough to humiliate.

She doesn’t protest, which is kind of nice. They always do.

And for some reason, this gets to me more than if she’d screamed and fought and tried to claw her way at freedom.

We don’t speak on the way down the hall. The wheels are too loud on the wood.

The morning is overcast. The air tastes like ocean and electricity. She breathes it in like she’s trying to memorize it.

We make it to the edge of the bluff. The water below looks calm, but it’s not. It never is.

I set the brakes.

She doesn’t ask why I brought her here. She’s not that na?ve. She knows this is a stage.

“This is where she would’ve sat,” I say. “If it had been her.”

No response.

I crouch beside her. Again. Close enough to see the salt on her skin.

“Well, I’m not her. You made a mistake.”

I nod. “I did. But we’ve already covered that.”

She didn’t expect the dismissal. I can tell.

“Regardless, it was the right kind of mistake.”

“You’re deluding yourself. There’s no such thing.”

“I guess we’ll see about that.”

She lets that sit. Then lifts her head, gaze steady. “So what does that get me—a reduced sentence?”

“I don’t do reduced sentences.”

She shifts in the chair. The straps hold.

“I see you now. Not the villain, exactly. The liar. The bystander.”

The wind snaps harder across the bluff. Her hair moves. She doesn’t.

“I was once in Ava’s place,” I say. “You want to know what saved me?”

She acts like she couldn’t care either way. It’s very convincing.

“It wasn’t the cops. Wasn’t a teacher. Wasn’t a neighbor. It was luck. One window of escape and a long enough run. And people like you—people who ‘didn’t know what to do’—stood in the way the entire time.”

I stand. Move behind her. Place my hands on the chair handles.

She tenses. Then relaxes. Like it doesn’t matter either way, like she’s tired of waiting and she’s grown impatient.

“I’m not going to kill you. Not today.”

“That’s a shame,” she says. “Your eggs were runny and your bacon was burned. Who wants to live like this?”

“That’s the point, my dear.”

“And you’re sure I can’t convince you otherwise? You’re not exactly the kind of company I like to keep, if given the choice.”

I grab the chest strap and pull it as hard and as tight as I can manage, until breathing for her takes effort.

Then I turn the chair back toward the house. We move in silence—two people bound by a mistake neither one of us is done making.

Halfway there, she speaks.

Only two words.

But they change everything.

I keep pushing.

But I shouldn’t have brought her back inside.