Page 340 of Primal

“And the way the faucet drips exactly every twenty-three seconds?”

“Bad plumbing.”

She leans closer, voice soft. “And the cold spot by the drain?”

“Coincidence.”

She grins like she’s winning. “You suck at lying.”

The truth? Seventy-two years old. Ex-Marine. Taught me all about guns. Found him three days after he drowned, one hand clawing at the shower curtain like he changed his mind halfway to hell.

“The tenant before you died of a heart attack. Not in the tub.”

“But you did find him.”

“I was the only one who ever checked in on him. So yeah—his landlord called me.”

She tilts her head. “And?”

“And he was dead. That’s it.”

Payton goes still. A cookie crumb falls from her lips. Not grinning now. “Where? The couch? Bedroom?”

I look away. “Does it matter?”

“Kade …”

Something in her voice makes me meet her gaze.

“Did he die in the tub?”

The confession comes out rough. “Yeah.”

“Well …” She snorts. “That explains why the showerhead’s fucked.”

A laugh huffs out of me.

“Guess I’m showering at your place now.”

***

2:17 pm. Payton’s calendar said ‘Client Hell Session 1-4PM,’ which means I have exactly 103 minutes to violate several federal laws.

Her spare kitchen key is under a garden gnome with a phallic hat. Classy.

I lock the door and pull gloves from my pocket. Not because I’m sloppy. Just because I don’t trust myself not to touch something I shouldn’t.

Well. More than I already am.

A Post-it stuck to the fridge door: buy oat milk or DIE.

Little skull doodle underneath. Morbid. Cute. Probably directed at herself.

I adjust my glasses then unzip my backpack. Time to work.

It’s not stalking if you’re protecting her.

I mount the first of the cameras in a corner—angled toward the kitchen door. Clean line of sight. Motion-activated.