“What would you accept?” He offered me a temporary job: stay at the estate part-time, sit in on meetings, take notes, ask questions, and say something if my gut screamed. “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.” “If anything feels weird, I’m out.” “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 big, old, and cared for. A groundskeeper met us out front, relief washing over his face when he saw Murray. “This is Briar,” Murray told him. “She saved my life.” The man’s eyes widened at me. “You’re the one.” “Yep,” I said.
Over the next few weeks, I became Murray’s boundary. I sat in meetings and watched people’s faces. When someone pushed papers at him and called it “urgent,” I asked, “Why is it urgent? Who benefits from speed?” The guy’s smile faltered. Murray looked at him. “Yeah. Why is it urgent?”
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