Page 50 of Peak Cruelty

Vance

T he notebook opens to the same page it always does. Third page. Top-left corner. Rachel Holt. Circled. No slash. No closure.

Just the next name on the list, a mistake about to be rectified.

The kind of woman who talks about her daughter’s rare “illness” at wine tastings, who hires a photographer to catch her “candid” grief.

Her GoFundMe was well optimized. The kid’s records were too fragmented.

I saw it in a six-second clip someone reposted without sound—Rachel touched her kid like she was posing with a prize she didn’t want to hold.

She lives in a one-story house with a coral front door and fake terracotta planters. Security camera just above eye level. The neighborhood’s full of families who think ordering monogrammed doormats counts as home security. The kind that thinks “private” means safe.

I watch her for three days.

She leaves at 8:17 every morning. Alone.

Sunglasses. Phone pressed to her ear like she’s handling urgent business.

She isn’t. I track the calls. Gym. Dry cleaner.

Ava’s school. Once, she stood on the curb and told someone over speaker that she’s being harassed again.

Her voice shakes in all the right places.

On the second day, I follow her to a juice bar. She tells a woman at the next table her ex is stalking her. That she’s afraid. That she’s had to move twice. She says it with perfect posture, smiling as though fear’s just another product she’s selling between Pilates and Pinot.

She doesn’t lead me anywhere. Just loops.

So on the fourth night, I stop waiting.

At 10:04, the lights go out in sequence—kitchen, hallway, bedroom. I wait six minutes, then move.

The lock is new, but the alarm code’s four digits and sloppily entered. She’s been careful for so long she’s gotten lazy.

I’m inside before she knows she’s not alone.

Or maybe she does know.

I step inside.

The house smells like eucalyptus and fake vanilla.

She’s in the kitchen, barefoot, pouring wine with one hand and scrolling her phone with the other. When she looks up, she doesn’t scream.

“I always knew I’d die in a robe,” she says. “Just hoped it’d be cashmere.”

She doesn’t run, but her fingers twitch like they’re used to finding panic buttons. She lifts her glass instead. “Please tell me you’re not another podcast fan.”

I don’t answer.

She studies my face, then smiles slow, like she’s playing a part she cast herself in.

“God, I always wanted to be the girl in a home invasion. Not the rape-y kind. Just the one that gets duct-taped to a chair while the stranger rifles through her trauma.”

She raises her glass. “Cheers.”

I move closer. No hesitation. “Where is she?”

She tilts her head. “You’ll have to be more specific. I’m terrible with pronouns.”

“Marlowe.”

She exhales through her nose, annoyed. Like I’ve tracked dirt in.

“She always did attract the wrong kind of attention,” she says. “Should’ve known eventually one of you would find me.”

“Just answer the question. I’m not looking for a story.”

“No? Drama in a sundress. It always circles back.”

“Where is she?”

She shrugs, too slow to be casual. “I don’t keep tabs. She’s like mold. Shows up, ruins things, disappears.”

“Give me the address.”

“That’s a terrible idea. For both of us.” She sips her wine. “You’re not here to kill me, are you? Because if so, let’s skip the speech. I’ve had a long day.”

“That address, Rachel.”

She leans against the counter, unconcerned. “What if I say no?”

I lift my jacket just enough to show what I’m carrying. She sees it. Doesn’t react.

“You’re cute when you threaten murder. But if you kill me, you’ll never find her.”

“If you stall, I’ll do worse.”

That gets her attention. Her mouth tightens, just slightly. She finishes her wine, sets the glass down like a toast to bad decisions, and slips on a pair of shoes by the door.

“Fine,” she says. “But I want a good seat.”

“This isn’t a show.”

She laughs. “Everything’s a show. That’s what you don’t get. Marlowe doesn’t want to be saved. She wants to burn slow so someone will watch. And you?—”

She jabs a finger at my chest as she passes. “—are exactly the kind of man who stares at fire.”

I follow her outside.

“Where’s your kid?”

“Asleep,” she says, glancing toward the house. Then, with a shrug. “Don’t worry, this won’t take long.”

“You’re just going to leave her?”

She rolls her eyes. “Well, I’m sure as shit not bringing her along for this .”

“Is there anyone you can call?”

She ignores me. “So,” she says over her shoulder, “what’s the plan when we get there? Gonna pull her out like some tragic bride at the altar?”

“My plans are none of your business.”

She smirks. “Not a romantic, huh?”

“No.”

“Good. Then you won’t mind when she lets you down.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to just leave your kid.”

She rolls her eyes. “Relax, Rambo. The au pair’s asleep in the guest room.”

She gets in the driver’s seat. I climb in beside her. She turns. “They’ll kill you, you know.”

“Maybe.”

Rachel opens her mouth to speak, then closes it again. In the end, she can’t help herself. “She won’t be the same.”

I don’t ask what she means. I probably should have.