Page 102 of Peak Cruelty

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’thavea 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 runerrands.”

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 myGod.”

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’smailingsomething.”

“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 achild.”

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

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

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