Page 26 of Peak Cruelty

Vance

S he’s in the living room. Still barefoot. In the wheelchair. Wearing my shirt like she’s doing me a favor. Still watching me like she’s three moves ahead and just waiting for me to catch up.

That ends now.

“Up,” I say.

She stands. No eye-roll, no protest—just that infuriating expression of polite curiosity, like I’ve asked her to taste-test a soup I already ruined.

I lead her to the guest room. Not the one she started in—that one’s emotionally compromised.

This one hasn’t seen anything yet.

It's still under the illusion this is a bed-and-breakfast.

Lucky bastard.

I wheel the chair in behind her and tie her to the bed. Ankles first. Then wrists.

She doesn’t resist. Just watches the knots as though she’s grading my form.

“You’ll want to burn these restraints when you’re done,” she says. “Fibers trap protein. Blood’s mostly protein.”

I tug the last strap tighter than I need to. The sound it makes isn’t quite a protest—but close.

“Noted.”

I shut the door. Lock it. Wedge a chair under the knob. Old-school, but she’s earned the redundancy.

Finally, peace.

I head for the porch.

The blood’s had time to settle. It’s gone dull around the edges, oxidizing into something that won’t rinse easy. A halo, already etched into the flagstone like a goddamn crime scene mosaic.

I hose it down. Scrub with bleach. Again. Again.

It doesn’t come out.

Stone is porous. A truth I knew but ignored. What I need is acid or demolition. What I have is a garden hose, bad lighting, and a doormat that’s just big enough to lie.

So I lie.

I drag the planter over three inches. Shift the mat. Drench the entire porch so it looks evenly soaked.

Not perfect.

But plausible.

Inside, the kitchen looks as though it’s trying to pretend nothing happened. Bad job of it. The drag marks he left are thinner than I remembered, at least he bled with manners. One streak across the tile. A couple of drops by the sink. A half-print near the hallway—mine.

Bleach. Towel. Vinegar rinse. New gloves halfway through.

No distractions. No time to think.

Just pressure. Pattern. Precision.

She moved through here.

And even with gloves, I don’t trust that she didn’t leave something behind—oil from her skin, a stray hair, the scent of triumph.

I scrub the countertops again.

Just to be sure.

The body’s still in the garage.

Double-wrapped. Taped. Labeled internally under inconvenience .

He’s not going anywhere.

But that grotesque van out front? That thing has departure written all over it.

Inside, it smells like sweat and synthetic rubber. Cheap cologne clings to the air—an identity already fading.

I take the ID from the visor. The tablet from the dash. Name matches the badge. None of it real.

Not a plumber. Not even a good liar.

I can’t deal with the van permanently. Not yet.

But I can make it disappear long enough to buy time.

I ease it down the service path behind the house. No lights. Just enough moon to catch the treeline. The tires whisper over wet sand and pine needles—quiet, but not invisible.

It won’t fool a dog, but it’ll buy me 24 hours.

I park behind a ridge of brush, angled just enough to break up the profile. Not visible from the main road. No line of sight from the house.

Back inside, I bag the gloves and rags. Separate from the clothes. Too much DNA in either to risk overlap.

The rags I’ll burn.

The clothes take the long route—different fire, different site.

No cross-contamination. No traceable bundles.

No mistakes I can’t explain.

I knot the last tie and check the seams. Twice.

Only then do I stop long enough to feel it—the shift.

What’s not secure is the schedule.

The house.

The time I thought I had.

The clock is ticking.

I go back to her.

Still tied. Still watching me as though she knows something I don’t.

I check the straps again.

Not because I need to.

Because she makes me want to.

They’re tight. No marks.

That matters.

It’s the difference between panic and precision.

“Thirsty?” I ask.

She lifts a brow. “Is that the prelude to another waterboarding, or are we just back to small talk?”

I stare at her. Down the glass myself.

Then I close the door.

Let her sit with her thirst.

Because I need to sit with something else:

The sick feeling that no matter how well I dispose of the body, how clean I get the grout, how fast I ditch the van—she’s the one thing I won’t be able to bury.