Page 58 of Peak Cruelty

Vance

T he first thing I notice is the quiet. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that comes after something ends.

The house is still. Not abandoned—just emptied. Like someone left in a hurry and took the air with them. A single sandal by the door. A phone charger still plugged in. Nothing out of place except the feeling.

I move fast. No lingering. No room for sentiment.

I know where she is. Room on the left. End of the hall. The one that locks from the outside. The one that’s closed, with the light showing underneath.

I take a deep breath, step back and kick once—hard.

The frame cracks. The door swings.

She’s there. Across the room.

Not strapped down. Not unconscious. Sitting upright against the far wall. Elbows on her knees, head bowed, hands threaded together like she’s praying—or planning.

There’s a tear in the corner padding. Fingernail gouges beneath it.

Her head lifts before I speak. Eyes find mine. Not wide. Not glassy. No scream. No relief. Just recognition, like she knew it’d be me and took her time deciding what to say.

“Marlowe.”

No answer. Just the smallest tilt of her chin. Her hair’s matted. There’s a cut above her eyebrow. A dried smear at her lip. No socks. No shoes.

I step inside.

“You okay?”

Her voice is hoarse when it comes: “Define okay.”

I crouch. Not close. Just enough to meet her eyes.

“Can you move?”

“You should have brought that wheelchair. You seemed very fond of it. Your timing was a little off.”

It almost makes me smile. I offer a hand. She doesn’t take it.

She braces her palm against the wall and rises on her own.

A wince. A sharp breath through her nose. Then she’s upright.

Not steady. But proud.

I don’t say anything. Just wait while she tests her legs. They hold. Barely. Her shoulder brushes mine when she passes. Not for support. Just direction.

She glances at the door. “You armed?”

I show her. “Always.”

She looks up at me, brows raised. “Bring snacks?”

I stare. “You want snacks?”

“No. Just checking if this is a proper extraction or some kind of half-assed revenge tour.”

“It’s both.”

“Figures.”

We hit the hallway. Still quiet. The kind of quiet that feels engineered, not natural.

She keeps pace. Doesn’t ask where we’re going or who’s left. Her hand curls into a fist, loosens, then curls again.

“What day is it?” she says.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re not staying long enough to send a postcard.”

At the corner, she slows. Looks down the hall.

“Is he dead?”

I tighten my grip and guide her forward. “Does it matter?”

She stops. Turns—just enough to look at me.

“To me, it does.”

I hold her gaze. “Yeah. He’s dead.”

She studies me for a beat, then nods once and keeps walking.

By the front door, she pauses. Leans against the frame like she needs a second. I open the closet. Grab a pair of shoes. Help her slip them on.

I hand her a hoodie. She shrugs into it, movements stiff but practiced.

She’s done this before. Not this, exactly. But running’s not new to her.

“You good?”

She nods. Then frowns. “Define good.”

“Conscious. Upright. Capable of running.”

“Check, check, and depends who’s chasing us.”

“Fair.”

Outside, the air hits like a slap. Humid. Damp. She closes her eyes for a second, just one, then opens them again like nothing happened.

“Car’s down hill,” I say.

We move. Quick. Across the porch and down the walkway.

“Mexico has good tacos,” she says.

“Too obvious. We’ll do Utah. Hide in plain sight.”

She groans. “If I die in Utah, I’m haunting you.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

She stumbles once, catches herself.

“Want me to carry you?” I ask.

She glares. “Try and I’ll bite you.”

“There she is.”

We reach the edge of the walkway. The gravel shifts beneath our feet—wet and loud, like it wants to betray us. I scan the street. Empty. No headlights. No movement.

Too empty.

Marlowe notices it, too. Her steps slow. She doesn’t say anything, but I feel it—her breath shortening, her spine pulling taut.

Then the sound.

Not one.

Many.

Boots. Fast. Crunching over the grass, the gravel, the road ahead of us.

That’s when they appear—six men, maybe seven, stepping out from the trees like they’ve been there the whole time. All armed. Faces covered. Tactical gear, not rental costumes. This isn’t amateur hour.

There’s no shouting. No warning. Just raised rifles and the kind of stillness that says: don’t try it.

Marlowe stops first.

I step in front of her, instinct more than strategy.

One of them signals. The others fan out.

A voice crackles through a comm, low and clipped:

“Confirmed. Both targets in sight.”

Targets.

Plural.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t run. Just watches them the way you'd watch a wave coming, already too close to move.

I feel her eyes before I hear her voice.

“This was a mistake.”

She doesn’t ask what happens next.

She already knows.

Instead, she says—so soft it cuts?—

“I was almost starting to believe it could work.”

And that’s what lands the hardest.

Not the guns.

Not the men.

Not even the fact that I don’t have a plan.

Just the sound of hope dying on her tongue.