Page 118 of Peak Cruelty

Just consequence.

57

Vance

The 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?”

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