Page 44 of Peak Cruelty

Vance

T he first thing I register is lemon oil.

The next is fresh-cut grass. The faint sound of kids playing in the distance. The air smells warm, like home, like lawn clippings and someone cooking.

The windows are cracked, letting in the distant sound of lawnmowers, the soft scrape of sneakers on pavement. I blink once. Then again. I have no idea where I am.

The ceiling fan is spinning overhead, slow and unbothered. I’m on a couch, shirt off, bandaged poorly. My ribs wrapped tight with gauze that smells like antiseptic and thrift.

There’s humming. Female. Close. I try to move and regret it immediately.

“You’re awake,” she says. Not surprised. Not concerned. Just stating it like the weather.

She walks into view with a metal bowl and a rag. She’s older. Mid-sixties, maybe. Strong arms. Gloves. A dark smear across the front of her shirt as though she’s been scrubbing something long past saving.

“This isn’t a hospital,” I manage.

“No,” she says. “And thank God for that.”

She kneels beside me. Peels the rag off my forehead. It’s sticky with blood and something else. I flinch.

“Good,” she says. “Pain means you’re not dead.”

I try to sit up. She plants a hand on my shoulder and presses down. Not hard. Just enough to remind me I’m a guest.

“You got a name?” she asks.

“Vance.”

“You got enemies, yes?”

I don’t answer.

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach anything above her mouth. “That’s what I thought.”

She dabs at the corner of my lip. The cloth comes away red. She nods like it’s a good thing. Just dunks it back into the bowl.

“How long?” I ask.

“Since I found you? Thirty hours or so. You were out cold, shallow breathing. Rental manager said to call the cops. I clean the place between bookings.”

“Why didn’t you.”

“I’ve been asking myself that ever since.”

That lands like a warning. But I’m too tired to care.

“You patched me up?”

“Some.” She shrugs. “What I could. Ice. Ribs. Superglue for your forehead. Might’ve broken a rib. Or three.”

“You could’ve left me there.”

“I could’ve,” she says. “But I didn’t.”

I shift. The pain radiates out in waves. “Why not?”

She wrings out the rag, looks at it as though she’s debating whether it’s worth washing again. Then she stands.

“I know what it’s like to get kicked in the teeth. People stepped in to help,” she says. “Sometimes life gives you the chance to return the favor. And besides, I’m a sucker for a lost cause.”

She leaves the bowl and walks into the small kitchen.

I try to sit up again. This time I make it halfway. Everything screams. The door looks miles away. I consider crawling.

There’s a mirror across from it—thin, mounted crookedly above a fake fireplace. I catch sight of myself on the third push forward.

Swollen jaw. One eye purpled shut. Bandages around my ribs. My face looks caved in. But I’m not dead, so there’s that.

I collapse on the couch. Exhale.

The woman comes back in with a mug. Sets it on the coffee table in front of me.

“Tea,” she says. “Don’t ask what kind. It’s hot and legal.”

I nod. Take it. My hands shake.

“You live here?” I ask.

“No. I live in the house up front.”

She sits across from me. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t offer more. Just studies me like she’s wondering whether I’m salvageable or not.

“You were alone,” she says. “But it didn’t feel like you started that way.”

I say nothing.

“You want to talk about it?”

Still nothing.

She nods. “Didn’t think so.”

Outside, the sun is somewhere past the horizon. There’s a breeze. It rattles the warped blinds in bursts. Dust dances through the slats.

“You got somewhere to go when you’re upright again?” she asks.

“Eventually.”

“You should make it sooner.”

“I plan to.”

“Planning doesn’t mean shit if you stay on that couch.” She shakes her head. “You’ve got to get up. Start moving.”

She stands. Picks up the bowl and the rag. Walks toward the door as if she’s done being useful.

“Hey,” I call.

She turns.

“Thank you.”

Her face doesn’t change. She just nods once. “Don’t make me regret it. I’ve got a family.”

Then she disappears out the door.

I sit there for a long time. Long enough for the tea to go cold and the sun to fade completely.

When I finally stand, it’s with a limp and a hand braced on the wall.

The woman left my bag by the door. My notebook’s still inside. I check to make sure. I don’t know why. No one touches it. No one except her.

I pick it up. Run my fingers over the pages like it’ll help.

There’s a name I haven’t crossed out. One that never had a red X.

Rachel.

Not because she’s innocent. Because I fucked up. And I need to fix it.

I close the notebook, zip the bag, and stare at the door.

I don’t owe her anything. She’s not here, and she doesn’t care. But I can’t shake it—I should be further along by now. I should have already moved.

My ribs flare with every breath. My shirt sticks to my side. I can barely stand, but I force myself up. The room tilts. I grab the table, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

Outside, the moon’s rising. The stars are clear. I should be out there—on the road, tracking down every lead, hunting.

But I’m stuck here.

I can’t move. My body’s giving up, and I’m still looking at the door, as though it’s the key to everything.

I try to push forward. My legs shake. My vision goes dark for a second. And I hear it—footsteps. A sound from outside.

I freeze.

Then it happens again. Closer this time.

Someone’s out there.