Page 24 of Peak Cruelty

Vance

S he leaves with nothing but the dare in her voice.

Waiting.

The bite of the apple still echoes. Crisp. Final. Like she knew that sound would follow me into every room.

I don’t follow her. Not yet. I need to reset. I need to think.

I stare at the spot where she stood. At the wet footprints vanishing into tile. At the place she knelt and made it look like worship.

But it wasn’t.

It was a dare.

She told me what I wanted to hear. Gave me the confession. The tears. The submission.

But not the truth.

Not the way I need it.

She turned it into theater. Bent the script. And then walked offstage as though she owned the whole production.

I realize I’m still holding the glass. I set it down. Slowly. Like it’s wired to blow.

It leaves a ring on the counter. I wipe it away with my palm and then stare at the streak it leaves behind.

I don’t know what to do with this—with her. The wet, calm thing that offered herself up like a sacrifice and smiled while she bled.

Not in the literal sense.

But that’s coming. Soon.

I told myself this was about justice. About truth. About making sure someone paid for what they did.

Now I’m not sure who I’m punishing.

I don’t believe her. Not entirely. She’s not stupid. She had to know something. The lie was too practiced. But it was designed to make me feel something—and I did.

That’s what makes it dangerous.

I walk to the bathroom and stop in the doorway.

Still wet.

She played me.

Not with force.

With permission.

I could follow her now. Drag her back in. Finish what I tried to start. Strip her down to bone. But it wouldn’t be clean.

And I only know how to do this if it’s clean.

I press my hands against the vanity. Look into the fogged glass. My reflection is useless. Faint. A smudge pretending to be a man.

She gave me what I wanted.

And I have no idea what to do with it.

That’s the problem.

That’s what makes her a threat.

Not her lies.

How fucking good she is at it.

I carry her wet clothes to the laundry room. Toss them into the wash. I need to get a sense of order back. Because without it?—

A knock at the door.

They never check just once.

Another knock. Heavier this time. Then the familiar scrape of boots on the porch.

I walk to the monitor. One look confirms it.

Same van.

Same man.

Only this time, he doesn’t wait.

He jiggles the handle. Knocks again. “Hello?”

I glance toward the hallway—she’s not in sight.

Yet.

I grab the wrench and open the front door.

“Good day,” he says, chipper. “Sorry to bug you again. Just wanted to knock this job out real quick. Someone pinged it as still open.”

I don’t answer. He’s already looking past me.

And that’s when it happens.

His eyes shift. Narrow. Focus.

Down the hall, she appears. Naked.

Like she’s still forgotten towels exist.

She doesn’t cover herself. Doesn’t duck behind the wall.

She looks at him.

Then looks at me.

And smiles.

Not wide, not fake.

Just enough to ruin me.

His gaze recalibrates—lower now, sharper. Not just at her—at his phone.

It’s already recording. Screen lit. Angle tilted.

He doesn’t speak.

Just watches.

And that’s enough.

It won’t end here. Not with a phone. Not with a witness. Not with him.

I push him toward the porch. He swallows. Tries to mask it. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

That’s the moment I know: He won’t be able to forget her.

And someone, somewhere, is going to come looking.

He starts to backpedal.

Too late.

I step onto the porch. Close the door behind me.

“Hey,” he says, hands up, defensive. “I didn’t mean anything. I didn’t?—”

The first hit drops him. Wrench to temple. Not lethal. Just enough to send him sideways.

He hits the porch hard. Scrambles. Hands slick on the stone.

“Wait—Jesus, wait?—”

I don’t.

The second hit caves in the side of his head. Bone gives. Then silence.

No screaming. Just the sound of weight shifting from alive to not.

I drag him inside.

Fast. Efficient. Not at all clean.

The rug is ruined.

She’s standing at the edge of the hall when I look up. Still naked. Still watching.

Her expression doesn’t change.

As if this is what she expected.

Worse—like it’s what she wanted.

I drop the wrench. Strip off the shirt that’s now ruined. Blood’s already drying on my forearm.

She tilts her head, just slightly.

“Your timing,” I say. “Not great.”

She shrugs.

Then turns and walks back down the hall.

Not triumphant. Just moving forward—like this was inevitable.

Like she always knew it wouldn’t end with a confession or a body in the tub—but with something I didn’t plan for. A decision that couldn’t be undone.

I stand there, shirt soaked through, hand cramping from the grip I never released. Covered in proof I fucked up.

The wrench drops.

Not out of guilt.

Out of physics.

Because this isn’t about the truth anymore.

It’s about a story that’s moving faster than I can revise it.