I set my jacket aside and head straight for the kitchen, kneeling beneath the sink. The problem is simple…a loose connection that should’ve been tightened months ago. I brought the proper tools with me and am able to fix it quickly, testing it twice to make sure the drip is gone.
I’m about to stand when I notice the cabinet doors are slightly crooked. I adjust those too. Then I replace the burned-out bulb above the sink and take out the trash near the kitchen island.
Next, I open the fridge, and I can’t help the grim frown that knots my forehead.
It’s nearly empty.
Same story with the cupboards. There’s barely anything inside—at least nothing that looks like a real meal. I realize I’ve never seen her come back from the grocery store. Not once. I know she’s been working long hours but still…
She needs to take better care of herself.
I don’t like that she doesn’t.
I straighten slowly, scanning the apartment one more time as I make a quiet resolution
I want to be the one who takes care of her.
After, I leave her apartment, making sure everything is exactly where it should be.
By the time Georgia gets home that evening, I’m back in my studio at Harbor House, the glow of my laptop the only illumination in the room. I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, jacket draped over the chair, my leg stretched out in front of me to ease the dull ache that never quite goes away.
This is the part I tell myself is practical. Protective. Necessary.
The feeds come up one by one.
Her front door opens and she walks in.
I lean back against the headboard—watching.
Chapter Four
Georgia
By the time I get home, I’m ready to drop face down on my bed and just go to sleep.
I kick off my shoes just inside the door and drop my bag onto the small bench, already mentally listing everything I didn’t get done and everything I still need to do. The apartment is quiet in that familiar way that grounds me. I move into the kitchen on autopilot, twisting the faucet on as I reach for a glass.
I pause for a second, my brows dipping in confusion.
Something isn’t quite right…
Hand still wrapped around the handle, I listen for the familiar dripping sound of the pipe beneath the sink, but it doesn’t come.
My stomach tightens.
I turn the handle off and back on again, slower this time, watching closely. Still nothing. I crouch and open the cabinet beneath the sink, half-expecting water damage or a bucket shoved underneath.
Everything looks…right.
Too right.
I straighten and open one of the upper cabinets. It swings smoothly instead of catching. I try another one, and it’s the same thing. My pulse starts to tick faster.
My landlord didn’t do this.
I know that for a fact. He’d called me two days ago to complain about his health and told me he wouldn’t be able to come by for weeks. He’d suggested I call a plumber instead. I’d thanked him, hung up, and like always, I’d put it off.
I turn slowly, scanning the kitchen even as the answer to the puzzle forms in my subconscious. My eyes suddenly fall on the note on the counter placed beneath the salt jar. I pick it up, leaning against the counter. My hands shake as I unfold the note.
