Page 30 of Peak Cruelty

Vance

“Y ou gonna clean that up?” she asks, nodding toward the hall.

I know she doesn’t mean the mess on the floor.

“I’ll get to it.”

“Good.” She steps out of the shower. “Because if he starts to smell through the vents, I’m not taking the blame.”

She walks out as if it’s decided. As if the worst already happened.

It hasn’t.

I leave the body where it is.

Wrapped. Bagged. No seepage. No smell. Not yet.

There’s time. Barely.

It’s the van that needs to disappear for good.

I put her back to bed and triple check my work and the locks.

Then I take the guy’s keys and gloves, nothing else. No phone. No prints. Just the weight of a hook caught between my lungs, tugging every time I breathe.

The van starts clean. No hesitation. That’s the problem with things that work too well—they attract attention.

I take it slow along the coastline. Legal speed. Headlights on. Don’t give anyone a reason to remember the make or plate. The beach is less than four miles. Public access. Midweek. It’s remote, but I have to plan for the odd tourist.

I park in the lot near the closest trailhead.

I think about what she said: dump him in the water. Let the tide take care of it.

She said it like it wasn’t the first time she’d thought about it.

That sticks.

Not her tone. Not the logic.

The ease.

She sees angles. That’s not comfort—it’s threat.

And she wasn’t wrong.

This could be the place. One man. One weighted body. The Gulf could carry it into myth.

But I don’t do it.

She hasn’t thought it through as much as she thinks she has, and I don’t rush endings just to quiet the middle.

I kill the engine. Leave the van unlocked, keys in the ignition. It’s possible someone will take it. Strip it. Joyride it. Burn it. Or better—abandon it somewhere worse. Either way, it’s out of my hands.

I walk back.

It takes just under an hour. I don’t hurry. I let the movement drain what’s left of the static under my skin. The static goes quiet by mile two. By mile three, the house comes back into view.

I step off the main road. Cut behind the tree line.

Inside, the garage still stinks like vinyl and bleach.

I check the bag. Still sealed. No shift. No seep.

The van was the first priority, but the body won’t keep.

He’s heavier than I remember. Or maybe I’m just done pretending it doesn’t bother me.

Why not put the body in the van?

Because that’s how people get caught.

One van pulled over. One camera hit. One patrol with a bored rookie doing checks—and suddenly, it’s not a disposal run.

It’s a confession on wheels.

An empty van is just a question.

A body is the answer.

I toss my gloves in a bag, seal it. Change shirts. Strip everything I wore into its own sealed pile.

Then I check the monitor.

She’s where I left her.

The way she assumed I’m a novice bothers me. The way she offered advice like a lifeline, but it wasn’t.

It was a test.

And the worst part?

I almost took it.

I shut the monitor off.

Not because I don’t want to see.

Because I do.

Too much.

And that’s where mistakes come from.

Too much of anything, and it starts to feel like gravity.

But she’s not gravity.

She’s a deviation.

And I’ve already made one mistake.

I won’t make two.