Page 33 of Cherry Picking

good lord

Evie

relax, thirteen. I’m not looking to adopt your golden retriever

I lock the screen, a sudden irritation prickling under my skin. The bus drops us at the hotel, and I head straight for the room. Lights out, the faint grinding of the ice machine the only sound in the hall, I reach for the phone again.

Briggs

for the record, he’s a loud chewer and he’s been known to cry at insurance commercials

Evie

so he’s got a sensitive side AND he’s single. you’re quite the salesman

Briggs

go to sleep, evie

Evie

the sun’s still up over here

Briggs

aren’t vampires supposed to be nocturnal?

Evie

your grasp of the folklore is truly pathetic

Briggs

I’ll leave the undead expertise to the specialists

Evie

finally, a professional courtesy

Briggs

goodnight, gravedigger

Evie

goodnight

Our flight leaves the next morning. It’s an off day for the Kings, which means my performance moves from the ice to the kitchen counter, where I can finally face the administrative debris of a dead man. There’s a stack of it—accounts that need closing, calls I’ve been avoiding.

First on the list is the insurance claim for Ziggy’s car. The form asks for a narrative of the loss in my own words. Below that, a crude diagram of an intersection with two small boxes representing the vehicles. There’s a line at the bottom asking if the insured was at fault.

He didn’t see the stop sign. That was the version I was given. His fault, then. I suppose so.

I fill in the basic details and leave the rest of the boxes empty.

After that, it’s the bank, followed by my dad’s supplemental policy, and finally a voicemail from Ray’s office regarding a small remaining balance on the funeral. By the time I’ve cleared enough mental space to breathe, it’s seven o’clock—four in Vegas, and I know Murphy hasn’t started dinner yet.

I hit the Call button.