Page 3 of Peak Cruelty

A kick to her ribs.Then another.

Her head snaps back loosely, blood smearing the floor.

The only sound left is the ragged rasp of her breath.

“Watch the face,” the older man says.He glances my way, just once.“Or don’t.”

They don’t.

One of the men grips her chin, forcing her to look at the guy calling the shots.

“That’ll do it,” he says.“For now.”

She meets my eyes, just for a second.

And then they drag her out the door.

No one says a word.

They don’t tell me who they are.

They don’t ask who I am.

They don’t care.

The door swings wildly, crashing into the frame, still echoing through the house.

And I’m alone.

Face against the tile.

Mouth full of blood.

Wondering how the hell this started.

And what it’s going to take to end it.

1

Vance

Thirteen days earlier

I've been watching her for forty-eight minutes.Not because I need that long—because I like patterns.Patterns are proof.And I like having proof before I ruin someone’s life.

I like knowing when she blinks, when she fidgets, when she lies to her daughter in small, soft ways that no one else notices.

The rental car idles, muffled beneath the noise of shift change.Nurses flood the sidewalk in pairs, laughing into phones, adjusting their scrubs.No one looks at me twice.That’s the point.The vehicle is basic.No decals, no dents.The kind of sedan people rent when their real life is somewhere else.Just like mine.

Unremarkable enough to disappear.Or park in a school zone without questions.

She walks out of the hospital at 5:11 p.m., like she has every Wednesday this month.She’s wearing a charcoal hoodie, mirrored sunglasses, and black leggings that cost more than most people’s weekly groceries.She’s put together, but not high-maintenance—controlled in the way thatmakes other people feel crazy.Women like her always are.

The girl—Ava—is beside her.Five, maybe six years old.Left arm bandaged.Right hand clutching a stuffed elephant that’s gone dark around the edges.The kid doesn’t cry or squirm.She’s silent, alert.Like a rabbit that’s been trained to smile for photos.

She crouches beside the girl, buckles her in with practiced ease, and then brushes the kid’s bangs out of her face.Once.Twice.Three times.As though she’s waiting for someone to take the picture.

I watch her do it and mark the movement.

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