Page 52 of Peak Cruelty

Vance

W e drive west, out past the neighborhoods with fake gas lanterns and high school banners nailed to fences.

Past the grocery stores with wine bars inside, and the churches with Instagram handles.

Rachel doesn’t talk much, but when she does, it’s just to annoy me.

She taps the steering wheel like she’s playing a song only she can hear.

“You’re awful quiet,” she says. “Serial killer quiet.”

I don’t respond. She wants to control the tone. I don’t let her.

“Let me guess. Military? Ex-cop? Something grim and unfuckable.”

Still nothing. The silence makes her fidget. That’s the goal.

We hit a stretch of road with no lights. Woods on both sides. She glances over like she’s expecting me to pull a gun. Or maybe she hopes I will.

“Don’t worry,” she says, flicking on the high beams. “Nobody buries bodies out here anymore. Too many podcasts.”

I point to the next exit. “Get off here.”

She squints. “What is this? Sudden urge to confess?”

“ATM.”

She looks over, incredulous. “You’re making a withdrawal? Now?”

“We’re ahead of schedule.”

“We don’t have a schedule, Vance. This is not a brunch reservation. You said we were going to kill a man.”

“We are.”

“So naturally, you thought—‘better swing by the bank.’”

She keeps driving, muttering to herself. “Jesus Christ. We’re doing errands. I’m driving a murderer to run errands .”

We pull into a gas station lot with an old standalone ATM bolted to a wall like it owes the building rent. I get out. She doesn’t.

I withdraw a grand. Crisp twenties. The bills smell like bleach and bourbon. The machine groans like it knows what I’m about to do. When I climb back in, Rachel’s staring like she’s about to file a Yelp review.

She doesn’t look at me. Just says, flatly, “Feel better?”

“Post office next.”

“Oh my God. ”

She snaps her head toward me. “You’re mailing something.”

“Yes.”

She looks up at the sky like she’s convening with God himself. “He’s mailing something.”

“That’s correct.”

“I just want to be clear—you're running errands. On the way to a murder.”

I nod. “Loose ends.”

“Un-fucking-believable.” She slams her hand on the wheel but takes the turn I point to. Ten minutes later, we’re in front of a tiny post office where the American flag outside hangs limp and judgmental. I pull the envelope from my jacket and seal it.

“You want to tell me what this is about?” she says as I scan the empty lot.

“For the cleaning lady.”

She frowns. “What cleaning lady?”

“Helped me walk again. Gave me soup. Never asked questions. Has a great kid.”

She squints at me. “You’re mailing an envelope of cash to a woman who once made you soup.”

“No.” I lift the envelope. “The cashiers check is for her. The cash is for the kid.”

“That’s a lot of dough for a child. ”

I shrug and unbuckle my seatbelt. “She told me a cool story.”

“Must have been one hell of a bedtime story.”

“Believe me, it was.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“And as you kindly reminded me—I might get killed tonight.”

She doesn’t answer. Just watches me, like she’s trying to decide whether to laugh or drive us into oncoming traffic.

“What better time to be generous?” I gesture toward the mailbox. “Like I said. Loose ends.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh my God. This is a bucket list joy ride . I am being held hostage on a philanthropic crime spree.”

“Hostage is a strong word,” I say. “You said you were bored.”

“Anything else?” she asks through gritted teeth. “You want to swing by Target? Return some khakis?”

I pause. “Actually—stamps.”

She laughs once—no joy in it—then grips the wheel like she might snap it in half. “Stamps.”

I nod. “Ran out.”

She makes a sound that might be laughter. Or internal bleeding. Then she pops open the center console, pulls out a half-used sheet, and slaps them against my chest.

“Congratulations. You are now the most organized killer in America.”

I pocket the stamps. “That was generous.”

“Don’t. Don’t make this charming.”

When I get back, she’s staring straight ahead like she’s in a hostage video and I just made her rehearse her lines.

She throws the car in drive and peels out like the vehicle’s also given up on morality. “If you ask me to stop for stationery, I’m jumping out.”

“Relax,” I say. “I highly doubt you’ve mastered the tuck and roll maneuver. But, lucky for you, I’m done.”

“Sure about that?”

I glance over. “Unless I see a florist. Some debts deserve flowers.”

She scoffs. “You don’t seem like the type.”

“If you’d tasted that soup, you’d understand.”

She groans—long, low, like she’s regretting every decision that led to this passenger seat.

But she keeps driving.

Because curiosity’s a hell of a drug and now she needs to know how this ends.

Good girl.