Chapter 16
ZOEY
“You’re doing it wrong.”
I don’t bother to look up from the arrangement in my hands because I know exactly what I’ll see: Whiz scowling, looking every bit the judgmental and controlling asshole that he is.
“Then by all means,” I reply evenly, adjusting the placement of the flowers on the stand. “Show me how you’d like it done.”
A few seconds pass before he mutters, “No, you’ve got it.”
Exactly what I expected.
I keep working, lifting the ribbon and smoothing it out so it falls the way it’s supposed to.
This is the fourth time in the last hour he’s corrected something without actually fixing it himself, and I’m starting to pick up on the rhythm of it.
He hovers, watches, comments, then backs off so he doesn’t have to actually do anything.
But he’s still here.
Which is more than I expected after the disaster of our first few days.
It’s been a week since he was ordered to work with me, and we’ve found something resembling balance. He barks orders less like commands and more like commentary now, and I’ve learned which ones matter and which ones are just something for him to say to fill the quiet moments.
I step back from the display and glance around the room. Chairs are set. Podium is in place. Lighting is adjusted just enough to soften the edges of the space.
“Family coming early?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he answers, leaning against the doorframe like he owns it, which I suppose he does. “They like to… gather.”
That pause tells me everything I need to know. This is one of those times where I take the information I’m given and don’t ask questions.
“Okay then.”
I automatically move to the next task. It doesn’t take much to fill in the blanks here, not with what I’ve already seen.
The man we’re prepping for tomorrow arrived with multiple gunshot wounds and many old scars. Then there are the tattoos…
I glance toward the back of the room where the prep area sits just beyond the closed door.
“Can I ask you something?” I say after gathering the courage to do the very opposite of looking the other way.
“Why not?” Whiz shrugs. “You’re gonna anyway.”
“Those tattoos,” I continue, ignoring the edge in his tone. “They’re gang-related, right?”
His jaw tics just enough for me to notice. “Yeah.”
“And the bullet wounds—”
“Are exactly what they look like,” he snaps.
I turn to face him fully. “So this… happens often?”
He studies me for a moment, like he’s weighing how much I need to hear against how much I don’t.
“More than you’d think,” he says finally.
I let that settle, then tilt my head slightly. “Why here?”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“I mean,” I say, gesturing around us. “Why does Death’s Door get cases like this? Why not standard funeral homes?”
A humorless smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Because standard funeral homes don’t want them.”
That’s… blunt.
“And you do?” I ask.
“They don’t get a choice here,” he replies, pushing himself off the wall and walking further into the room. “People like that, guys with records, affiliations, and history… They get turned away more than you think. Or they get treated like a problem instead of a person.”
I watch him as he talks, noting a shift. He’s not pacing, not agitated. Just… explaining.
“They still have families,” he continues. “Still have people who want to bury them right.”
That resonates with me. “And Death’s Door—”
“Exists for that reason,” he finishes. “Among others.”
I narrow my eyes slightly. “What kind of ‘others’?”
“The kind you don’t ask about,” he says.
I hold his gaze for a second longer. “Alright.”
For now.
I turn back to the room, straightening a chair that doesn’t need it, my mind still working through everything he said.
“So, I’m essentially handling clients no one else will take,” I say slowly.
“That’s one way to put it.”
“And I’m not supposed to ask questions when the situation seems…” I trail off, searching for the right word.
“Off,” he supplies.
“Exactly.”
“Correct.”
I huff out a small breath. “That’s a little concerning.”
“You signed on the dotted line,” he reminds me.
“Without knowing the full scope,” I counter.
“You knew enough.”
I glance back at him. “Did I?”
He hesitates before countering with, “Would you have signed if you didn’t?”
No.
Rather than answer, I let the conversation drop. It’s a bit unsettling that, despite Whiz’s complete lack of interest in anything other than a bottle of booze or club business, he’s managed to understand me in ways not many people do.
The rest of the afternoon passes quickly due to all the tasks necessary for preparing and coordinating a funeral.
Final adjustments to the pamphlet, phone calls, deliveries, and a dozen minor details that require my attention.
Through it all, Whiz stays close, watching more than helping, stepping in only when something actually matters.
There’s nothing efficient about the process, but it seems to work. I know it can’t be like this forever, but for now, it’s fine.
By the time evening settles in and the sun has faded, everything is ready for tomorrow. The space looks exactly the way it should… calm, controlled, respectful.
I wipe my hands on a cloth and exhale slowly, letting the tension from the day release in small increments.
“All done,” I say.
Whiz doesn’t react in any way, shape, or form. He’s not acknowledging my statement, not moving toward the door, not doing a damn thing to indicate that he plans on leaving for the night.
“You’re not heading out?” I ask, watching him carefully.
He doesn’t answer right away and continues to stare off into space. After a few tense minutes, he exhales, and it feels like the weight of the world is in that breath.
“Would’ve been his birthday.”
It takes half a second for his words to sink in.
Undertaker.
A vice tightens around my heart. “I’m sorry,” I say, the platitude falling from my lips.
He shrugs. “Yeah.”
Silence settles between us, and I contemplate the best course of action.
An idea springs to mind, and before I can think better of it, I blurt, “You could come by the cabin. I was planning on eating anyway. I’ve got food. And…” I gesture vaguely. “Something to drink that isn’t whatever’s in your kitchen.”
He jerks his gaze to me, and his expression is contemplative, like he’s trying to figure out what game I’m playing.
Sorry to disappoint, but no games.
“It doesn’t have to be anything,” I add. “Just… not this.”