That mattered.
“I’m an heir,” he said. “Family estate. More money than I could ever need. My last living parent died last week. I flew in for the funeral, landed late, and decided I could walk two blocks to my hotel.”
“And I found you in an alley.”
He nodded. “I got robbed. They took everything. I chased them, got hit, woke up in that alley.”
“So you were ‘trash’ for a night,” I said, hating the word as soon as it left my mouth.
“One night was enough for most people to decide I didn’t count,” he said quietly. “At the hospital, I proved who I was. The estate sent people.”
“Convenient.”
“Very. But you didn’t know. You just helped.”
“So why are you here?”
“Because I need help,” Murray said. “I have money. I don’t have trust. I’m surrounded by staff, lawyers, advisors. I need someone who isn’t impressed. Someone who’ll tell me when something feels off.”
“And you picked me because I did CPR.”
“I picked you because you were the only person in that alley who acted like a human being.”
He offered me a temporary job—part-time at the estate. Sit in on meetings. Take notes. Ask questions. Speak up if something felt wrong.
“How much?” I asked.
He said a number that felt like a trap.
“No,” I said. “That’s a ‘buy a person’ amount.”
“Okay. What would you accept?”
“I’m in an EMT course. Two months left. I’m not quitting.”
“Agreed.”
“I’m not trapped somewhere I can’t leave.”
“Agreed.”
“Written contract,” I said. “Reviewed by someone who isn’t your lawyer.”
“Agreed.”
“And I need a job title that doesn’t sound like a cult.”
He laughed once. “Fair.”
I exhaled. “I’ll ride with you. I’ll see the place. If anything feels weird, I’m out.”
The estate was large, old, and meticulously maintained.
A groundskeeper met us outside, relief washing over his face when he saw Murray.
“This is Briar,” Murray said. “She saved my life.”
