I have been sitting here for hours.

  Each minute drags like a dead limb. Tick. Tick. Tick. The grandfather clock behind me is the only thing in this room with any sense of rhythm. My fellow panelists drone on, oblivious to the way my jaw is clenched or the vein twitching in my temple. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to waste my morning listening to polished lies from people whose only talent is memorizing their own resumes.

  And still—no Luther.

  In front of me sits a man in his mid-forties. Sweat glistens along his hairline despite the cold. His mouth twitches every time I make eye contact. Desperate men always smell the same—like wet rust and borrowed courage. His fingers are clenched tight, knuckles white, and his palms are raw.

  He’s nervous. Terrified, even. But trying, pathetically, to mask it.

  “What are you hiding?”

  The words leave me before I consider them.

  His head jerks up, eyes wide. “Nothing, Mr. Brooks.”

  He straightens in his seat, attempting confidence, but the stammer in his pulse betrays him. I stare at him a second longer, letting the silence dig into his composure, then look away—out the tall, arched window beside me.

  And there he is.

  Luther.

  Strutting through the garden like the world owes him a favor. He’s talking to someone—a woman—but I can’t see her face. What I do see, however, is him kneeling.

  You’ve got to be joking.

  Holy hell. He’s wiping her heels.

  “Mr. Brooks…”

  The slow, uncertain voice yanks me back. James—yes, that was his name—still sits there, his dignity hanging by a thread.

  “Yes. Mr…”

  “James,” he says quickly.

  I nod once. “Thank you for appearing for this interview. We’ll get back to you soon.”

  He exhales with relief and exits, shoulders slumping the moment he passes the threshold. I don’t watch him go.

  Another candidate enters—a woman. Her arrival is announced by the rapid-fire clinking of high heels and an overwhelming scent of imitation vanilla.

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  She’s dressed like a secretary in a noir film: a tight pencil skirt hugging her curves a little too aggressively, blouse one button too low, lipstick a shade too red. Every move she makes is rehearsed flirtation. She leans forward when she doesn’t need to. Punctuates her answers with giggles. Makes eye contact like it’s a weapon.

  I feel... nothing.

  My fellow panelists are clearly enjoying the performance. I want to tell her this isn’t that kind of business. No amount of batting lashes is going to earn you a seat at Brooks & Sons. But I say nothing.

  When they turn to me for questions, I barely glance up.

  “No questions.”

  She falters. Just a second. But she knows. She knows I saw right through her. Still, she smiles that thin, sugar-slick smile and says, “Thank you for giving me this opportunity.” Her heels clink away.

  Then, the door opens again.

  I don’t see her at first. I see him—Luther, finally returning, sliding into his seat with all the grace of a man who has never feared consequence. He nods at me like nothing’s happened.

  “Dear brother, you’re late. You were supposed to be here by 10 a.m.”

  “I’m sorry, my dear brother,” he says smoothly, eyes twinkling. “I was attending to one of the interesting candidates outside.”

  And then I see her.

  The woman. His candidate.

  She enters like a whisper in a room that forgot how to breathe. Her presence is quiet, not dramatic. But arresting. There’s something unpolished about her—an honest awkwardness that makes her... real.

  She looks around, unsure of where to sit. I realize I’ve been staring and speak before I mean to.

  “Introduce yourself.”

  She settles in her seat, smoothing down her coat. Her eyes—green, vivid, wary—land on mine.

  “Hello, everyone. I’m Isabella Woods. I’ve completed my Master’s in Plant Biology. Previously, I worked as a research associate at St. Stephen’s College. But I’ve moved in with my grandmother to live with her in Berkswitch. I’m looking for a job that will allow me to stay near her.”

  All in one breath. Like ripping off a bandage.

  I push the glass of water toward her. She hesitates, then takes a sip.

  I lean forward. “I didn’t want a memorized answer, Ms. Woods. Tell me your true intentions. Why would a plant biology student want to work in a funeral business?”

  She chokes slightly on the water. Coughs into her sleeve.

  Luther moves like a shot, already at her side, pressing a tissue into her hand. “Slow down, brother,” he murmurs with a grin. “You’ll scare her off before we even begin.”

  She straightens her posture. Clears her throat. And then—

  “The real reason is... when my parents died in a car accident, my grandmother took care of me. I never wanted to come back to Berkswitch. But now she’s old. Sick. I’m all she has. I need to be near her. My last job wasn’t flexible. But your company… your policy offers health insurance for family members. Her house is within walking distance of this place.”

  She reaches for the water again. Her voice had been steady, but her hands are trembling.

  “Ms. Woods,” I say gently. “You need not say everything in one breath.”

  She looks at me then. Really looks. Not afraid, not performing. Just… there. Present. Honest.

  And suddenly the room feels heavier. Like the walls have shifted. Everyone’s watching me, but I can only feel her.

  Isabella Woods.

  Why do you feel like a locked door I’ve already tried to open?

  My chest tightens.

  And then I feel it—eyes on me. I turn.

  Luther is watching, grinning like the devil himself.

  He nods.

  A silent signal. A game we’ve played before.

  He’s found his new toy.

  But I’m not smiling.

  Because I already know how this ends.

  And this time, I’m not sure I’ll survive it.