Page 203 of Primal

That shitty tattoo stares at me—X-eyed smile, inked in some blackout he never got to explain.

I close my eyes and he’s there at our table.

Wesley, the grinning bastard, mouthing every word.

When I return, Payton clinks her glass against mine. We drink to the empty space between us. To the ghost who bought the first round and never got to finish it.

We drink until the glasses sweat and the song fades.

“Where do we go now?” she murmurs.

I pretend not to hear the ache and kiss her fingers. “Anywhere we damn well please.”

But there’s only one place left to go before the night ends.

***

I kill the truck engine.

Payton’s gone quiet since the trees gave way to chain-link and dead grass. Whatever’s playing in her head, it’s not pretty.

This fucking place looks worse than I remember—overgrown and gutted. Crime scene tape’s still caught in the blackberry thorns, flapping in the wind.

“You good?” I ask, not touching her. Not yet. “We can turn around. Hit the coast. Or go home and make sure Max isn’t waging Nerf war in a fog bank.”

Her mouth twitches. “And waste all that therapy? Dr. Melfi says I should face my trauma.”

I glance at the fence. “Pretty sure Dr. Melfi didn’t mean breaking and entering.”

“She doesn’t have my hoodie.”

That gets a snort out of me. “Is that what passes for closure these days? A custom hoodie and a B&E?”

Payton opens her door like the conversation’s over. Because it is.

I grab the duffel bag and hop out.

There’s a weird buzz in the air—probably the power lines, possibly my nerves. She takes off, shoulders squared and chin tucked.

We stop at the front gate.

She tilts her head. “So what’s the plan—parkour over the fence like we’re in Call of Duty?”

I dig out the bolt cutters. “Don’t insult me. I brought tools.”

The padlock takes about eight seconds to give in. The gate creaks open with theatrical flair—almost eager for us.

Payton steps inside first, flashlight beam slicing through the dark like a middle finger to caution. New hoodie. Same color, same fit, except the back doesn’t say ‘Property of Ghostface.’

Just ‘1331.’

My number. Hers. Branded in glittery ink instead of blood.

A white tank top—barely decent, clinging in all the right ways. Denim skirt short enough to tease what I already know. No panties, just like last time. Sneakers scuffed from running for her life. It shouldn’t turn me on. But it does. Hard.

I follow her through the overgrowth. The chapel’s still standing, technically. Bare bones and black mold.

The side entrance’s boarded up, but the paneling gives when I lean on it.