Page 53 of Peak Cruelty
Vance
T he sky’s that fake black-blue that only shows up after midnight—too dark for dusk, too lazy for dawn.
We’re back on the highway, Rachel behind the wheel, singing something off-key with the windows cracked and her elbow out like it’s a Sunday drive and not the aftermath of a barely contained situation.
I shift in my seat, ribs flaring hot. “You missed the turn.”
“I didn’t miss it,” she says, merging lazily into the left lane. “I rerouted.”
“Rachel.”
“It’s a backroad. Trust me, I know this state better than you.”
She sounds casual, but her hands tighten slightly on the wheel. I glance at her. “You’re enjoying this.”
“No,” she says. “Yes. Maybe. It’s nice being useful.”
I snort. “Post office wasn’t enough for you?”
She starts to answer—but the lights bloom in the rearview before she gets the chance.
Red. Blue. Flashing like a bad omen.
Rachel goes still. Her mouth parts slightly. “Shit.”
The siren blurts once, short and sharp. A bark, not a conversation.
“Don’t panic,” I say, already tucking the notebook down by my feet.
“Don’t panic? You look like you’ve been through a wood chipper, and I’m driving a car that smells like gasoline and entitlement.”
“We didn’t do anything.”
“We mailed something. Right before I almost drove into a tree.”
She signals, pulls over slowly, the way innocent people do. The tires crunch onto gravel. My pulse isn’t fast, not exactly. Just focused. Like all my blood has pooled behind my eyes.
“Keep your hands where they can see them,” I say.
She doesn’t respond.
I watch the mirror. A lone cop steps out. Hat tilted low. Hand on the belt—not on the gun, not yet.
He walks slow. Methodical. Like he’s deciding whether this is going to be a problem.
Rachel rolls the window down.
Even her breath sounds performative.
“Evening, officer.”
“It’s past midnight,” the cop says, looking between us. “License and registration?”
Rachel leans over to the glove box, digs out the documents. Her movements are smooth. Too smooth.
“You know why I pulled you over?”
“No, sir.”
He nods once, glancing over me like I’m an unclaimed duffel bag.
“You were swerving,” he says. “Looked like you might be impaired.”
“I’m not,” Rachel says brightly. “Just distracted. My dad’s sick.”
She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t stammer. I almost believe her.
He frowns. “You been drinking?”
“No, sir.”
“Step out of the vehicle for me.”
She freezes for half a second. Then nods. “Of course.”
I tense as she opens the door and climbs out. She’s wearing a tank top and jeans, nothing fancy. Her body language shifts the second she’s vertical—shoulders forward, voice smaller.
I lean over to listen.
“Sir, I—I know how this looks,” she’s saying, “but I promise, it’s just been a bad day.”
The cop’s voice lowers. “Who’s the man in the passenger seat?”
I lean forward like I’m trying to hear better, but I already know what he’s thinking. My face is bruised. I look like a problem.
“He’s my uncle,” she says quickly. “Got hurt a few days ago helping a friend move. I told him we shouldn’t be out, but he insisted.”
Uncle. That’s a new one.
The cop says something I don’t catch. She laughs. Soft, practiced.
“Listen,” she says, lowering her voice like they’re co-conspirators now. “I probably shouldn’t say anything, but I panicked back there. The guy in the passenger seat—yeah, not my uncle. More like...a situation. I shouldn’t even be saying this, but I got distracted back there. I mean—look at him. “
She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear like she’s suddenly shy.
“It’s messy. He’s married. I know, I know.
” She laughs once—light, embarrassed, rehearsed.
“Anyway, his wife found out and now she’s got her brother stalking me.
He’s ex-military or something, real vigilante energy .
It’s been a week of slashed tires and surprise visits.
I’ve got a restraining order half-drafted in my glove box. ”
She leans in like she’s letting the cop in on something dirty, but harmless. “So yeah, this is not my best moment, but you know how it is.”
She glances back at me, then back at the cop with a rueful smile. “Bad decisions make for very expensive hobbies.”
She jerks her thumb toward me without actually looking my way. “You know how it is. You think you can handle something casual, then it turns into this...mess.”
The cop just stares.
Rachel frowns like she’s disappointed in herself. “My phone buzzed. His wife. Well, soon-to-be ex. She’s been blowing me up ever since she found the texts. I shouldn’t have looked. That’s when I swerved. Reflex.”
She shrugs, all guilt and lip-gloss. “It was dumb. I just didn’t want to get pulled over for something else, you know? I panicked. Took the exit. Thought maybe I could breathe for five seconds before someone called me a homewrecker to my face.”
She glances down, lets the shame settle in just long enough to be believable. “I’ve had better nights.”
A pause.
The cop clears his throat. “That’s a lot to unpack.”
“Tell me about it.”
He shakes his head like everything’s clearer now. “You should’ve mentioned that.”
“I know. I just didn’t want to escalate. You know how these things go.”
I watch his shoulders soften. Rachel’s voice tilts upward at the ends of her words like she’s trying on innocence. The kind that’s a little breathy. A little scared. It works.
The cop nods. Hands her back the license.
“You good to drive?”
She nods. “Yes, sir. I’ll be careful.”
“Alright. Just take it slow.”
“Thank you. Really.”
She rounds the front of the car, climbing back in with a tight smile that doesn’t match the sheen in her eyes.
As she starts the engine, I say, “That was impressive.”
“I’m a single mom,” she says flatly. “We get good at improvising.”
We merge back onto the highway. The silence crawls back between us, smug and satisfied.
After a mile or two, I ask, “Why’d you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Cover for me. You could’ve had your whole home invasion fantasy thing for real.”
She stares at the road. “And what? Let them open the trunk?”
I turn to look at her. She’s dead calm.
“What’s in the trunk?”
She exhales through her nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh.
“My ex,” she says.
A beat passes.
“Well. What’s left of him.”