Page 49 of Peak Cruelty

I stand and wrap the pillowcase around my torso like a mock apron.He motions toward the bed.There’s a T-shirt—his—and a pair of boxer shorts folded.I pull them on.They smell like laundry detergent and someone who doesn’t sleep much.

“We’re going to have to get you some daytime clothes,” he says.“If you live long enough, that is.”

I tug the T-shirt over my head.“Not sure whether I should be flattered or concerned you didn’t plan that far ahead.”

I nod toward the front of the house.“How bad is it?”

He doesn’t answer, but the pause gives it away.

“I can help.”

That gets a reaction.“You?Help?”

I shrug.“You used the good rug.You’re going to need peroxide, baking soda, and at least two rolls of paper towels.Maybe three if you panicked and blotted.”

He opens his mouth.Closes it.

“I used to fact-check for true crime podcasts,” I say, breezing past him into the hall.“Most people don’t know this, but arterial spray can travel six feet if you hit the carotid just right.You didn’t, though.Wrong angle, wrong weapon.”

He follows me as though he wants to stop me, but doesn’t know what to say.In the kitchen, I search around, finally pulling gloves from beneath the sink.The kind meant for scrubbing toilets.The ones that reach your elbows.

I toss him a pair.

“You’re dripping,” I note, pointing to the smudge of blood on his shoes.“Try not to track it.And grab the bleach.Laundry room.Top shelf.”

He stands there, still holding the gloves.

“You’re serious.”

“Wouldn’t want you to botch the forensic side.Luminol picks up everything.And don’t get me started on how long DNA lives in grout.”

He watches me kneel next to the body, calm as a surgeon.I glance at the crushed side of the skull, then up at him.“This wasn’t your best work,” I say.“But I’ve seen worse.”

“No you haven’t.”

I look up.“Oh, I forgot.You know everything and you never get it wrong.”

He goes quiet again.

I pat the corpse’s jacket pocket.“Keys.Wallet.Phone.You’re going to need to ditch all three.Van, too.”

I use the toe of my foot to nudge the body’s arm back into place.But not before picking up the man’s phone.I search it and hold it out to Vance.“I think you’re gonna want to see this.”

The screen is still lit.A gallery of images.Women—tied up, terrified—staring straight into the lens.Mouths stretched behind tape, eyes begging or vacant.One has blood smeared across her chin.Another’s been photographed in a bathroom that looks too familiar.The photos aren’t old.And they weren’t meant to be found.

He looks at the phone.His grimace says everything.

“He was going to rob us and do God knows what else.It’s a good thing you didn’t let him in.”

Vance looks up at me.He doesn’t appreciate the sarcasm.“I handled it.”

“Yeah—at least you can’t say he didn’t deserve it.I know how important that is to you.”

He runs his hands through his hair.“Go back to the room.I don’t need your help.”

“No thanks,” I say.“I don’t like watching amateurs.And I’m not going to let you smear brain matter across every surface of this house like a Jackson Pollock painting.”

He stares at me.Says nothing.Just clenches his jaw as if that’s the only thing keeping it together.

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