Page 58 of Peak Cruelty

One van pulled over.One camera hit.One patrol with a bored rookie doing checks—and suddenly, it’s not a disposal run.

It’s a confession on wheels.

An empty van is just a question.

A body is the answer.

I toss my gloves in a bag, seal it.Change shirts.Strip everything I wore into its own sealed pile.

Then I check the monitor.

She’s where I left her.

The way she assumed I’m a novice bothers me.The way she offered advice like a lifeline, but it wasn’t.

It was a test.

And the worst part?

I almost took it.

I shut the monitor off.

Not because I don’t want to see.

Because I do.

Too much.

And that’s where mistakes come from.

Too much of anything, and it starts to feel like gravity.

But she’s not gravity.

She’s a deviation.

And I’ve already made one mistake.

I won’t make two.

30

Marlowe

He wakes me with a nudge and a single word.

“Shoes.”

No explanation.No tone.Just that.

A hoodie hits the bed a second later, followed by a zip-tie he doesn’t bother hiding.

“Don’t run,” he says.“If you do, I break your knee and leave you in the trunk.You won’t die tonight, but you’ll wish you had.”

I believe him.I stand.

We move fast.Out the back.Across the gravel.The air’s wet and sharp.Moonlight catches the tarp by the garage door—wrapped tight, sealed.

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