Page 40 of Peak Cruelty

Vance

S he doesn’t belong in a place like this.

That’s my first thought, watching her stand barefoot in a house we don’t own, in clothes that aren’t hers, unpacking a puzzle she didn’t buy. Everything about the scene is off. Too bright. Too quiet. Too clean.

Too late.

She didn’t ask about my plans when we left the motel. She saw the bag by the door and didn’t ask. Just grabbed her shoes like she thought maybe this was it—that I was cutting her loose.

I thought about it. But there was something about the way she was standing there, holding those broken sandals. Something about the way she just got in the car when I said it was time to go. No argument. No second glance. That was the part that hit hardest—not her silence, but how easy it was.

This place is nicer. That’s not saying much.

It smells of fresh paint and lemon disinfectant, like it’s been scrubbed raw for strangers.

Hardwood floors. Stiff white bedding. A tiny deck facing someone else’s better view.

But there’s hot water, and nothing leaking from the ceiling, and I needed to see her in a place where the walls weren’t caving in. Even if only for one night.

It’s still early. Technically morning, though the sky doesn’t know it yet. The storm’s passed, but I can still feel it in my bones, echoing old guilt.

I watch her move around the place as if she’s been here before. Puzzle box on the table. Glass of water next to it, as if she needs something unfinished to focus on.

Like it’s a routine we’ve had for years.

She picks up the glass with her left hand. Always her left. Every movement of hers leaves a mark now, as though I’ll need it later. As if I’m already rehearsing the replay.

“Cleaner,” she says, gesturing around the living room. “You trading up?”

“Temporarily.”

She nods, like she already knew that. Like everything about this is temporary.

“Just until I figure out what to do with you.”

She shrugs, both of us aware we’re starting something we can’t walk back. “Sounds about right. Maybe just bring out the pills again. One and done.”

I laugh, tell her the truth. “They were just aspirin.”

I should tell her what comes next. I should lay it out clean, logical, impersonal. I should say: you go home, I disappear, we don’t talk again.

But I don’t.

Instead, I cross the room. Press her against the counter. Kiss her as though it’ll undo the weight in my chest.

She lets me.

And for a while, that’s all there is. Hands. Teeth. Her thighs around my waist. I lift her onto the counter. Her legs tighten around me like instinct. Her hands thread into my hair. She pulls.

“This isn’t going to fix anything,” I say.

“Then do it again.”

So I do.

It goes that way for hours. Room to room. Surface to surface. No questions. No future. Just friction and a growing sense that something’s about to snap.

At one point she says, “You gonna tell me what happens next?”

I’m on my back. She’s straddling me. Her tone is casual, but her eyes aren’t. She already knows.

My hands are on her hips, but my mind’s already pulling away. Running numbers. Calculating exit wounds.

I don’t answer. Not at first.

Then, “You go home.”

“Just like that?”

I nod.

She leans forward, hair falling around her face like a curtain. “And what do I tell them?”

There it is. The part I didn’t plan for. The part where she steps back into her life carrying mine like a parasite.

I think about it. The cops. Her family. Her friends. The headlines. All the lives she’ll be stepping back into like nothing happened. She’ll need a story. Something believable.

“I’ll handle it,” I say.

“You can’t. Not all of it.”

She’s not being cruel. Just honest.

I know that. Have known it. But the truth doesn’t make a sound. It just sits there, heavy as wet clothes.

At some point, I get up. Turn on the fan. Bring her water. Stupid, normal things.

She watches me from the bed, hair a mess, eyes a little too clear. She’s waiting for a sign. Some kind of flicker that means stay. But I’m used to cutting lines, not holding them.

I notice the way her face goes still. Like she already knows this is the last time, she’s just waiting for me to tell the truth.

I don’t.

Instead, I sit up. Cup her face. Kiss her like it’s a eulogy. And when she pulls back, she says: “You’re hoping I’ll leave first, aren’t you?”

She looks at me like she’s done waiting for men to mean well. For a second, I wonder what she’d do if I asked her to stay. Then I remember who I am.

Her breath catches. “You want me to run.”

I don’t deny it.

I don’t have to.