Page 2 of Peak Cruelty

Vance

Thirteen days earlier

I 've been watching her for forty-eight minutes. Not because I need that long—because I like patterns. Patterns are proof. And I like having proof before I ruin someone’s life.

I like knowing when she blinks, when she fidgets, when she lies to her daughter in small, soft ways that no one else notices.

The rental car idles, muffled beneath the noise of shift change.

Nurses flood the sidewalk in pairs, laughing into phones, adjusting their scrubs.

No one looks at me twice. That’s the point.

The vehicle is basic. No decals, no dents.

The kind of sedan people rent when their real life is somewhere else. Just like mine.

Unremarkable enough to disappear. Or park in a school zone without questions.

She walks out of the hospital at 5:11 p.m., like she has every Wednesday this month.

She’s wearing a charcoal hoodie, mirrored sunglasses, and black leggings that cost more than most people’s weekly groceries.

She’s put together, but not high-maintenance—controlled in the way that makes other people feel crazy. Women like her always are.

The girl—Ava—is beside her. Five, maybe six years old. Left arm bandaged. Right hand clutching a stuffed elephant that’s gone dark around the edges. The kid doesn’t cry or squirm. She’s silent, alert. Like a rabbit that’s been trained to smile for photos.

She crouches beside the girl, buckles her in with practiced ease, and then brushes the kid’s bangs out of her face. Once. Twice. Three times. As though she’s waiting for someone to take the picture.

I watch her do it and mark the movement.

They always overcompensate physically. Over-affection. Over-praise. They perform love like it’s something they’ve been accused of forgetting how to do.

I unlock my phone, scroll to her profile. It opens like it was built for me. Private doesn’t mean anything if you know what you’re doing.

I skim the latest story. A boomerang of her and Ava blowing kisses in the hospital parking lot. “Strong girls get through anything ?? #LittleWarrior.”

Her voice is in the video, too soft and too bright. She’s not filming her daughter. She’s filming herself with her daughter in the shot.

I tap to pause the loop. Freeze-frame on the part where she leans into the lens and smiles like she hasn’t done a damn thing wrong. Influencer lighting. Crime scene energy.

She’s been here four times this month. Each visit perfectly spaced. Predictable. Unchallenged. The front desk staff smile when they see her coming. The nurses remember Ava’s name. That kind of familiarity is dangerous.

No one asks questions when you're consistent. They forget to look closer.

But I don’t.

She posts everything. Photos. Quotes. Appointments. Medication side effects. Google reviews of urgent care centers. She wants people to see her pain. Not Ava’s. Hers. That’s what gave her away. It’s not empathy she’s after. It’s applause. The kind you get after playing dead on stage.

She’s predictable. They all are. Until they’re not.

I run searches while she drives off. Taillights vanishing into the thick smear of traffic heading west. Pharmacy receipts.

School drop-off irregularities. Gaps in enrollment.

Ava missed twelve days in the last quarter alone—half of them after routine procedures.

Nothing in her records screams, but if you add up the silence, it starts to speak.

The last one didn’t think I’d find her either. She said she was doing everything right. Said her son was delicate. “A rare condition,” she called it.

She was still lying when I took her apart.

I don’t regret it.

But life moves on. Now I have other interests.

She just doesn’t know it yet.

I lock the phone. Set it face down on the seat. Glovebox is clean. Trunk’s prepped. Two doses, if I need them. I won’t.

The mirror is slightly off-center. I reach up and nudge it half an inch left—not because I need to. Because I always do. Routine is everything. If you do it the same way every time, nothing bleeds where it shouldn’t.

Friday is the day. Just 48 hours from now.

She’ll come alone. She always does.

That’s the thing about liars—eventually, they need the room to themselves.