6. Evie
EVIE
Briggs’s dad lives in one of those low tan houses, the kind that look extruded from a single machine sometime in the nineties. There’s a two-car garage, a full yard of decorative gravel, and one defeated palm tree.
A wheelchair ramp runs over the front steps. It’s made of plywood, with visible screws and a two-by-four railing I wouldn’t put much weight on. Somebody must’ve built it in a hurry, and I’d put my money on the little brother.
When my car rattles into the drive, Briggs is standing in the open doorway in a black T-shirt and sweatpants. He hardly slept again, judging by the dark circles under his eyes. But even wrung out and grieving, he’s aggressively, inconveniently handsome.
Heavy brows, a strong nose, that ridiculous dark mustache. I can tell he’d be trouble in a bar fight and gentle with a dog. I resent both halves equally.
Once I’m out of the car, he stares right past me with his lips pursed.
“What?” I ask, already irritated.
“Nothing.”
I rear back. “You’re making a face.”
“I’m not trying to.” The Corolla ticks as it cools, which it does now, apparently. A new feature. “Have you had that thing serviced in the last year?”
I pop a piece of gum in my mouth. “Have you minded your business in the last year?”
“That’s a no, then.”
I wave him off. “It runs.”
“It sounds like it’s chewing something.”
I chew, obnoxiously. “That’s the muffler.”
He scrunches his face at me, and I ignore it, coming up the walk. He doesn’t move out of the doorway, so I stop a polite arm’s length away and look up—which I hate, because I’m not short, and he’s making me feel it.
“Are we doing the job or a roast of my vehicle?”
“Both, ideally.”
He pushes the door open for us, and a draft from the air conditioner rolls out.
Inside, the living room is half-lit, the blinds pulled tight against the glare. There’s a recliner positioned at an angle that offers a view of both the TV and the street, a walker parked within arm’s reach, and a side table cluttered with a lifetime’s worth of small treasures.
To the left, a narrow hallway serves as a gallery for family photos. Or, more accurately, of the Maxwell boys. I find their history in a sequence of frames: school portraits, the years defined by missing teeth, two dark-haired kids growing taller with every turn of the calendar.
There’s a young hockey player swimming in pads three sizes too large and a leaner one clutching a guitar like it’s a shield. High school graduations. A faded shot from a fishing trip, one of them hoisting a trout.
I linger in front of the display longer than a stranger should.
“That’s quite the collection,” I say.
“My dad believes if you don’t frame it, it didn’t happen.” Briggs’s voice drops into a careful, low register. “Just don’t ask him any questions. He’ll have you here for three hours explaining the story behind each one.”
“I’ve got time.”
I take one more look at the wall and finally spot the omission. It’s like that phantom sensation when your tongue keeps searching for a missing tooth—the gap is shaped exactly like the thing that’s gone.
There’s no woman in any of the shots. No fourth chair at the table. Just two boys and their father, making a life out of the remnants.
“He’s in the kitchen,” Briggs says, guiding me away from the wall. “Fair warning: he’s currently in a mood.”
We round the corner to find Murphy parked at the dining table in a manual wheelchair, both hands wrapped around a faded Marlins mug. As I step into his line of sight, he scans me from my boots to my hair, one brow already climbing toward his hairline.
He’s—well, the genetics are undeniable. I didn’t get a proper look at him during the service, but up close, the resemblance is unfair.
He’s somewhere in his late fifties, built with a sturdy frame that’s gone a bit soft and gray, sporting several days of scruff and the same heavy, expressive brows as his son.
There’s a slight droop to the left side of his face—the stroke’s lasting signature—which leaves him looking perpetually skeptical of everything he sees.
I decide I like the look. It gives him an edge.
“So. You’re the girl Danny’s been raving about,” he says.
“That would be me,” I reply.
Murphy snorts. “I hope you didn’t come here expecting anything. I don’t need a sitter.”
“Good, because I’m not great with kids.”
“You know what happened to the last person who tried to ‘help’ me.” He delivers the line with a flat, clinical coldness that has Briggs going still in the doorway. I don’t even flinch.
People assume working in the death industry makes you somber. In reality, it just makes you the only person in the room who can handle a morbid punchline without blinking.
“I know more than the rumors,” I tell him. “I’m the one who dug the hole for his burial.”
“You did?” he asks, his gaze sharpening.
“Saturday morning, with my partner Tomás.” I pull out the chair opposite him and sit, because the standing-over-him routine is exhausting for everyone. “It’s a nice plot, actually. Good drainage. You’d be surprised how many of them flood in the winter.”
“Christ,” Briggs mutters to the ceiling.
“Good drainage,” Murphy repeats, like he’s testing the weight of the phrase for a future argument. “You hear that, Briggs? At least the man’s dry.”
Briggs offers a tight, pained smile. “I heard.”
“Sit down, son, you’re hovering. You look exactly like your mother when you do that.” Murphy gestures vaguely at the third chair, and Briggs finally sinks into it.
“Their mother—she’s gone?” I ask, keeping my voice level.
“Childbirth complications,” Murphy replies. “Something went wrong after Zig was born. She only got to hold the boy for about a day before she passed.”
“Postpartum hemorrhage?” I offer. “Or maybe an embolism. The details usually get lost in the paperwork.”
He looks at me with a flicker of genuine recognition. “You certainly know the trade.”
“It’s the family business.” I give him a small, empathetic smile. “My mother died, too, if we’re comparing notes. I was eight months old. Aneurysm, they think. I have no memory of her at all.”
“Is that right?” Murphy asks.
“Not a single second of her. We keep her photo on the mantle like a ghost.” I shrug. “It’s a strange club to be in. Motherless before you can form a thought. The dues are cheap, but the meetings are weird.”
Murphy huffs a laugh, and for a second, he looks happy. Then his eyes glaze over with moisture.
His son is barely five days dead, and now he’s discussing his late wife with a stranger while the grief threatens to spill over the rim. Briggs notices the shift and goes rigid, half rising from his chair, every instinct in him screaming to fix it, to shield his father, to change the subject—
I place a palm flat on the table. “There’s been a lot of rain under this roof lately. You’re allowed to leak.”
Murphy lets out a wet, cracked laugh that sounds like it was dragged up from his chest, swiping the heel of his hand under his eye. “Where the hell did Danny find you?”
“Two doors down from the medical supply warehouse.”
“Christ,” Briggs says again. But the tension has finally left his shoulders, and when I look at him, his expression is soft, like I’ve just performed some small miracle.
We move on to the logistics.
Briggs walks us through it: I handle the mornings at Sutton’s, then spend the afternoons and off days here.
I’ll manage the PT routine from the laminated sheet, drive him to the clinic, and keep the pill organizer filled and on schedule.
The arrangement lasts through the end of the season, or until Murphy’s cleared for solo duty. Whichever arrives first.
“And when do you catch your flight back to Charlotte?” Murphy asks his son.
“Tomorrow. Puck drop is Thursday. I’ve already missed—” He cuts himself off. “I missed the game.”
Murphy grunts. “What’s one measly game?”
Briggs lets the question hang, and I realize it’s an entire history of arguments condensed into four syllables. I decide not to touch it.
“I’ll video call every day,” Briggs says. “And Evie will—”
“Evie,” I interrupt, “will tell you to mind your own business while she handles it herself.”
Murphy points a finger at me, wagging it with a grin. “Her. I definitely like her.”
Briggs huffs. “You’ve known the woman for twenty minutes.”
“Danny was right. Let’s double her salary.”
Briggs rubs a hand over his face. “How about I manage the finances, Dad.”
Murphy narrows his eyes. “What? You can afford the bill.”
“I could also afford to move you into a single-story place where you could actually move around. You refused to leave this house, so don’t fight me on the payroll.”
His father waves him off with an indifferent hand. “Yeah, yeah.”
Once the deal is struck, Murphy and I shake on it. His grip is slightly unsteady, but he pulls me in closer for emphasis. “You really dig the graves yourself?”
I smile. “When the occasion calls for it.”
“Huh.” He releases my hand. “Honest work. You can tell a person means it when they work with their hands.”
It’s the kindest thing anyone has said about my career in years. Usually, people find it macabre or just a temporary stop-off until I find a real job. I have to look at the photo wall for a second just to keep my face from doing something embarrassing.
Then we do the goodbyes, and Briggs walks me out to the curb. The heat is already rising off the gravel in shimmering waves, my car sitting in the sun like a tired dog.
“That was smoother than I anticipated,” Briggs says.
“You expected a disaster?”
He rubs a hand over his jaw. “He likes you. And he doesn’t like anyone. Not lately.”
“I’m exceptionally charming. It’s a liability.” I fish my keys out of my tote. “He’s good, Briggs. Your dad. He can actually take a hit.” I unlock the door. “He’ll be fine.”
Briggs is quiet for a long beat. “Listen,” he says, his voice going serious. “About the job.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s contingent on one condition.” He crosses his arms over his chest, his tone putting me on high alert. “You are not taking that car to my father’s house.”
I stare at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“It sounds like it’s on its last legs. It probably is on its last legs.
If it dies with him in it while you’re on the way to an appointment, that’s a problem.
” He’s already shaking his head before I can even open my mouth.
“I’ll cover a full tune-up. Everything it needs so it’s reliable. That’s the deal.”
“I really don’t think you should—”
“It’s not a gift for you. It’s for him. Consider it a work expense—I’d do the same for a company truck.” He gives me a stiff, professional nod. “Take the money, or the deal’s off.”
I should say no. There’s a version of me—the one with the pride and the stack of unpaid bills—that refuses on principle. I’ve spent my life taking care of my own mess.
But the car is indeed dying. And it isn’t for me; it’s for Murphy. And four hundred dollars I don’t have is exactly four hundred dollars I don’t have. Pride is a luxury I can’t afford this season.
“Fine,” I say.
He blinks, looking like he had a second argument ready to go.
“Don’t look so shocked. I’m stubborn, not stupid.” I slide into the seat and roll the window down, looking up at him. “Your dad’s hot, by the way.”
Briggs’s entire expression shifts. “What?”
“For a man his age. In recovery. I’m just saying, you’re going to age well—it’s the brows.” I start the engine. It coughs and groans, then finally turns over. “Consider it a compliment to the bloodline.”
“If you sleep with my father,” Briggs says, his voice lethally calm, “this employment contract is officially void.”
“So sensitive. You can sleep with my dad, if you want. He could use the excitement.”
I put the Corolla in reverse, grinning at the dashboard, and leave him standing in the desert heat with his mouth hanging open. It’s the best look I’ve gotten off him so far.