Page 6 of Peak Cruelty

Vance

S he’s alone when she steps outside, as usual. No kid. Just her phone in one hand and a folded sheet of lab orders in the other, walking like she’s already halfway to the next version of the story she’ll sell tonight.

I track her pace. Steady. Predictable. As though she’s rehearsing it for an audience she thinks she controls.

I shift out from behind the sedan.

Cap down. Posture off. Gait borrowed from someone slower. Face altered just enough.

The cameras will catch what I want them to catch. Nothing useful.

When she hits the gap between rows, I move.

Hand to the arm first. Then the base of her neck.

The syringe slides in clean—a motion I’ve practiced a hundred times for worse outcomes.

The dose doesn’t quite work as fast as her mouth does.

“This is a mistake,” she says. Clear. Certain.

“They all think that.” I steady her as she folds against me. “They’re wrong.”

Her phone drops. I catch it before it bounces.

Quick wipe. Face down. Left under the rear tire of a car that doesn’t belong to either of us.

Someone will find it when the timing’s right. Not before.

She folds neatly into the passenger seat.

No dead weight collapse. No spectacle.

It’s always cleaner when they don’t scream. I take it as a kind of apology.

Just like that—in and out. Exactly as it was planned.

Some people call it abduction. I call it timing.

The drive takes just under three hours. I follow the coastline west, then slip north along the bluffs. Private properties. No neighbors for at least two miles. A cliffside estate, tucked into a curve of the coastline that eats cell signal and spits out wind.

The house isn’t mine. Nothing about this is. Paid for through the usual methods. Scrubbed. Quiet. Disposable.

It’s temporary. That’s the point. Permanence invites questions. Men like me don’t get questioned when they move on.

The light’s almost gone by the time I make the turn inland. Better that way.

She shifts once.

Nothing violent.

Just a shallow adjustment, a reflex that says the body’s trying to wake up but hasn’t decided it’s worth the effort.

I watch her breathing without touching her.

Rhythm’s good. No spikes. Exactly as it should be.

By the time I turn off the main road, the sky’s dropped into a pale, exhausted blue.

The gate swings open when I punch in the code.

The gravel beneath the tires is sharp and deliberate as we make our way up the drive—no one comes here by accident.

I pull into the garage, kill the engine, kill the lights, and sit for one long second before moving.

Reflex. Routine.

If you don’t pause, you miss things.

She’s starting to come around, her brow twitching faintly as the sedative begins to loosen its grip. Not enough to move. Not enough to speak.

Her mouth parts. A breath slips free, catching against my collarbone.

Reflex, not choice.

I carry her inside. Past the thresholds that don’t matter. Into the one space that does.

The bedroom is neutral. White walls. No distractions. Ocean just beyond the blackout shades.

The bed’s made.

I lay her down, fasten the restraints, and step back.

She doesn’t open her eyes at first.

But when she does, she doesn’t waste time looking around.

She looks at me.

No panic. No bargaining.

Just stillness.

She understands enough.

I sit across from her, elbows resting easy on my knees.

“You’re here because you’ve been seen,” I say. Calm. Direct. “No more filters. No more curated grief. No more borrowed pain.”

She closes her eyes again. Drowsy, yes—but that’s not the reason. It’s easier than looking at the truth.

But as usual, the truth isn’t going anywhere.