Page 51 of Peak Cruelty

But plausible.

Inside, the kitchen looks as though it’s trying to pretend nothing happened.Bad job of it.The drag marks he left are thinner than I remembered, at least he bled with manners.One streak across the tile.A couple of drops by the sink.A half-print near the hallway—mine.

Bleach.Towel.Vinegar rinse.New gloves halfway through.

No distractions.No time to think.

Just pressure.Pattern.Precision.

She moved through here.

And even with gloves, I don’t trust that she didn’t leave something behind—oil from her skin, a stray hair, the scent of triumph.

I scrub the countertops again.

Just to be sure.

The body’s still in the garage.

Double-wrapped.Taped.Labeled internally underinconvenience.

He’s not going anywhere.

But that grotesque van out front?That thing hasdeparturewritten all over it.

Inside, it smells like sweat and synthetic rubber.Cheap cologne clings to the air—an identity already fading.

I take the ID from the visor.The tablet from the dash.Name matches the badge.None of it real.

Not a plumber.Not even a good liar.

I can’t deal with the van permanently.Not yet.

But I can make it disappear long enough to buy time.

I ease it down the service path behind the house.No lights.Just enough moon to catch the treeline.The tires whisper over wet sand and pine needles—quiet, but not invisible.

It won’t fool a dog, but it’ll buy me 24 hours.

I park behind a ridge of brush, angled just enough to break up the profile.Not visible from the main road.No line of sight from the house.

Back inside, I bag the gloves and rags.Separate from the clothes.Too much DNA in either to risk overlap.

The rags I’ll burn.

The clothes take the long route—different fire, different site.

No cross-contamination.No traceable bundles.

No mistakes I can’t explain.

I knot the last tie and check the seams.Twice.

Only then do I stop long enough to feel it—the shift.

What’s not secure is the schedule.

The house.

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