Page 61 of Peak Cruelty

Just to see if he will.

31

Vance

Her light’s still on.

Door still cracked.

It’s not an invitation.Not really.She left it open like she leaves everything open—with the kind of calculation that passes for accident.

I watch from the hall.

She’s quiet inside.No shift in the mattress.No rustle of sheets.She’s already asleep, or faking it well enough that I’d have to make contact to tell the difference.

I walk past it.Don’t slow down.Don’t look in.

Pace the hallway twice.Cut through the living room.The kitchen.End up in the garage.

The bleach smell’s still clinging to the air—sharp, chemical, edged with sweat.I open the door.Let the night air in.There’s nothing left to see—tarp rolled, floor scrubbed, trash bagged and sealed.Still, I wait.

Wait ten minutes.Let the air clear out.

Then I shut it again.

Back inside, I wash my hands.Maybe the fifth time.Maybe more.

The rental’s too quiet.No neighbors.No traffic.Just the central air kicking on and off, and the soft tick of the thermostat behind me.

I flick on a lamp and sit at the small desk by the window.

The laptop wakes without prompting.

So do I.

No hesitation.No thought.Just keystrokes that know where to go.Muscle memory.Repetition.Routine.

I open a browser.Type in the usual.

New profiles.Filtered by location.Most recent first.

Photo grids load—blonde, brunette, overlit faces angled to perfection.Thirty-somethings with ring lights and too many secrets.

I toggle through hashtags: #fitmom, #mentalhealthmatters, #survivor.

Location tags bring up women at the park.Women at the gym.Women drinking overpriced coffee in minimalist kitchens with borrowed backdrops.

They write in lowercase.Caption their pain like it’s a brand.

Healing.learning.moving on.

They smile like they’ve survived something.

I click like that’s a challenge.

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