Page 4 of Peak Cruelty

They always overcompensate physically.Over-affection.Over-praise.They perform love like it’s something they’ve been accused of forgetting how to do.

I unlock my phone, scroll to her profile.It opens like it was built for me.Private doesn’t mean anything if you know what you’re doing.

I skim the latest story.A boomerang of her and Ava blowing kisses in the hospital parking lot.“Strong girls get through anything??#LittleWarrior.”

Her voice is in the video, too soft and too bright.She’s not filming her daughter.She’s filming herself with her daughter in the shot.

I tap to pause the loop.Freeze-frame on the part where she leans into the lens and smiles like she hasn’t done a damn thing wrong.Influencer lighting.Crime scene energy.

She’s been here four times this month.Each visit perfectly spaced.Predictable.Unchallenged.The front desk staff smile when they see her coming.The nurses remember Ava’s name.That kind of familiarity is dangerous.

No one asks questions when you're consistent.They forget to look closer.

But I don’t.

She posts everything.Photos.Quotes.Appointments.Medication side effects.Google reviews of urgent care centers.She wants people to see her pain.Not Ava’s.Hers.That’s what gave her away.It’s not empathy she’s after.It’s applause.The kind you get after playing dead on stage.

She’s predictable.They all are.Until they’re not.

I run searches while she drives off.Taillights vanishing into the thick smear of traffic heading west.Pharmacy receipts.School drop-off irregularities.Gaps in enrollment.Ava missed twelve days in the last quarter alone—half of them after routine procedures.Nothing in her records screams, but if you add up the silence, it starts to speak.

The last one didn’t think I’d find her either.She said she was doing everything right.Said her son was delicate.“A rare condition,” she called it.

She was still lying when I took her apart.

I don’t regret it.

But life moves on.Now I have other interests.

She just doesn’t know it yet.

I lock the phone.Set it face down on the seat.Glovebox is clean.Trunk’s prepped.Two doses, if I need them.I won’t.

The mirror is slightly off-center.I reach up and nudge it half an inch left—not because I need to.Because I always do.Routine is everything.If you do it the same way every time, nothing bleeds where it shouldn’t.

Friday is the day.Just 48 hours from now.

She’ll come alone.She always does.

That’s the thing about liars—eventually, they need the room to themselves.

2

Marlowe

Some women run to stay thin.I run to stay free.

It’s early—barely six.The kind of morning that feels stolen, like I slipped out before the rules could catch up.

The air is sharp, clean, threaded with the citrus scent the gardeners blast through the hedges twice a week.The sky is the pale kind of blue that looks filtered.And for twenty-nine blessed minutes, nothing hurts.

Not my body.Not my face.Not the lie.

There’s no staff.No problems.No expectations.

Just me.And the rhythm of my feet buying time.

Until I see him.

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