Page 22 of Peak Cruelty

Vance

S he still thinks this is a game.

Maybe not Monopoly—but something with rules. Strategy. An exit.

Something she can win.

She’s wrong.

I wait until the sunroom is quiet again. Her head tips back against the chair, lips parted, like maybe she’s asleep. Like she hasn’t been waiting for me this whole time.

No tray this time. No bowl. No story.

Just a hand on the back of the chair and the low scrape of wheels on tile as I turn her toward the hall.

She doesn’t ask where we’re going.

I take the long way. On purpose. Past the kitchen. Down the guest wing. Let her wonder.

At the end of the hall, I stop.

One hand opens the door. The other pushes her through.

The light is bright.

The room: cold, pristine. Chrome and porcelain.

One wide vanity. One toilet. One tub.

Everything she needs. Nothing else.

I unbuckle the straps at her ankles.

“Stand up.”

She doesn’t.

I crouch. Unclip the chest strap next.

“I said—get up.”

She doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t move, either. That’s the thing about her. She never refuses outright. Just absorbs it. Like a sponge that dares you to squeeze harder.

So I do.

I lift her by the upper arms. Set her on her feet. She wobbles once. Doesn’t reach for me.

“Do you know what happens to liars?”

Her voice is quiet, but clear. “They end up in your house.”

I grip the back of her neck and shove her toward the toilet.

Hard. Fast. Her knees hit tile with a sound I feel in my spine.

I flip the lid. Take a breath.

I start to force her head down.

But something in me shifts—and I don’t.

I pull her back.

Her mouth is open, but she doesn’t speak.

Then she goes still.

I wait.

No plea. No sputter. Just...surrender.

I grab her jaw and tilt her face up.

I say, “Tell me you knew.”

She doesn’t.

So I try to do it again.

But I can’t.

Her face is blank. Eyes wide. Not brave. Just scared—and trying hard not to show it.

That, somehow, is worse.

“You want to die over a lie?”

She coughs. Once. Then?—

“Does it matter? I’m going to die either way.”

I stare.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak again.

Just sits there, as if she’s waiting for me to prove her right.

There’s sweat in my collar now. From what, exactly? A lie? A lame attempt at waterboarding? A woman who’s wasting my time?

I step back.

Think about my next move.

I thought she’d break easily. Or at least easier than this.

She hasn’t.

And I’m tired. Not the kind that sleep fixes.

Too much time. Too much energy. Too much money. For a woman who’s done nothing but waste all of it.

So I nod once. Wipe my hand on a towel.

“Clean yourself up,” I say. “You’re starting to smell.”

And then I leave her—on the bathroom floor, soaked, shivering, and possibly still a liar.

That should’ve been enough.

It wasn’t.