Page 29 of Peak Cruelty

He turns.Eyes flat.

“This is a very nice house,” he says.“You’ve only seen two rooms.”

He doesn’t wait for a response.“And that wasn’t a confession.”

“Maybe not.But it’s the closest you’ll get.”

We stare at each other across the space.Across the table.Across the line he still thinks I’m going to cross.

And when he reaches for me, I don’t stop him.I lean back, tense—but not from fear.Not only.

I let him touch me.

He thinks I’m giving in.

It’s too bad, really.

He’ll bleed for that.

15

Vance

The wheelchair’s been in the hall closet since the day we arrived.Folded, clean.Wrapped in plastic.Labeled in red ink:MOBILITY AID—FULL SUPPORT.

It was never meant for her.

But plans change.

And I don’t waste resources.

She watches me wheel it into the room.Doesn’t speak.Just keeps her eyes on the floor like she knows this moment deserves reverence—or disgust.Hard to say which.

“Get up.”

She doesn’t.

I move to the bed and reach for the restraints.No sudden movements.I’m not trying to startle her.Not yet.

“This seems like an awful lot of work,” she says, nodding at the chair, “for a confession.”

“You’ll make it worth it, I’m sure.”

Her arms are stiff when I unbuckle them.Legs slower.Blood rushing back like it’s reluctant to help her.She stays seated, rubbing her wrists, staring at the chair like it’s a prophecy she doesn’t like.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Still, nothing.Then, finally: “Why?”

Just one syllable.But it cuts.

I crouch beside the bed.“Because that’s what happens when you pretend not to see.Eventually, someone makes you look.”

She shakes her head.“I’m not Rachel.”

“No.You’re worse.”

That lands.

---