Page 17 of Peak Cruelty

9

Vance

“You don’t look like a mother,” I say.“Not the kind you fight for or mourn, anyway.”

If it stings, she doesn’t show it.

She watches me like she’s mapping my skull.Not to read it.To break it.Smart.But useless.Let her trace the edges.Let her clock the distance, the weight of the chair, the fact that the room is empty except for us.Let her build a map that goes nowhere.

I stay seated.

She stares at me as though I’m the only part of this she hasn’t already solved.Not the room.Not the restraints.Me.

I should enjoy that.I usually do.But there’s something about the way she does it—quiet, steady—that feels less like fear and more like calculus.She’s not wondering how to get out.She’s wondering how I got this far without being stopped.

“Good, you’re awake,” I say, voice smooth as a glove just before the grip tightens.“Consent’s not required.But awareness?That’s where the fun is.”

She doesn’t react.Not a tell in sight.Most of them try something by now.A scream.A sob.A story.She thinks she’s special, that she’s different.I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am.

“You made yourself easy to find,” I continue.“Easy to predict.”

I get nothing.She might as well be comatose.

“I watched you for weeks,” I say.“Every lie.Every loop.Every angle.”

She stares straight ahead.I guess she’s already figured out I don’t need her alive to make a point.

“Ava, right?Sweet girl.Quiet.She doesn’t cry—not in public anyway.”

That one lands.It’s a flicker—fast, nearly nothing—but I see it.A shift in the way her mouth holds.A skip in her breath.

“I know where your daughter is right now.”

She sucks in her bottom lip.An odd reaction, but it’s obvious I’m getting to her.

“I know the exact minute she gets dropped off.I know what window you stand behind, pretending you’re already gone,” I say.“I know the stories you tell.The ones you want people to believe.The ones you’ve posted for sympathy.For likes.Fordonations.”

Her jaw tightens.Good.Now, we’re getting somewhere.Anger is easier to work with than apathy.

She lets out a dry laugh, her eyes narrowing.“So this is your idea of ‘rage’?This is what gets you off?”

I don’t react.Not the way she wants.But that little spark, that irritation— that triggers the edge of my voice.“This isn’t rage,” I say.“Rage would’ve left you in a ditch.This?This is me walking you through it.Slow.”

I let the word hang in the air like a sentence.Not a threat.Not a choice.

“You want people to believe you're strong.Brave.A mother fighting for her child.But it’s not about her, is it?It's about you.It’s always been about you.”

I take a step closer.Not fast.Just enough.

“No one’s coming, by the way.Not today.Not tomorrow.Not ever.”

She shifts again, barely.But I know the signs.She’s scared.And she should be.

I crouch next to the bed, eyes level with hers.

“You're not here because you lied,” I say.“You're here because you thought you could get away with it.”

Pause.

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