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His gaze drops to the chain, then returns to my face. “Laurel Sterling?”

His voice is deep, rough in a way that sounds like gravel under tires.

Every sensible instinct I possess stands up, gathers its belongings, and prepares to evacuate. “Who’s asking?”

“Briggs Purnell.”

The name means nothing to me. “Who?”

His brow shifts slightly. “I knew Ben.”

The world does that tilty thing again. I hate how many men can apparently walk out of the fog and say my dead brother’s name like it’s a key.

My grip tightens on the door. “A lot of people knew Ben.”

“Not like I did.”

“Not a particularly comforting distinction coming from a complete stranger standing on my porch at night.”

His eyes flick briefly past me, not intrusively, more like he’s checking the shadows behind my shoulder. “I know it’s late.”

“And yet…”

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.”

“That’s what people say right before trying to sell religion, knives, or multi-level marketing skincare.”

This time his mouth moves. It might be the ghost of a smile. A very intimidating ghost. “I’m not selling anything.”

“That’s exactly what a skincare cultist would say.”

He exhales once through his nose, then reaches into his jacket with a massive, scarred hand.

Every muscle in me snaps tight.

“Photo,” he says. “I’m getting a photo.”

I say nothing.

He removes his hand, a worn leather wallet between his fingers. He opens it, pulls out a folded photograph, and holds it toward the gap.

The photo is old, a little bent at the corners. Four men standing outside Last Mile Garage, sunlight hitting chrome behind them. Wayne Calder is in the background, younger and scowling at whoever took the picture.

In the center is Ben.

My brother. Alive and laughing. One arm slung around Ashby, who looks composed even in a photograph, wearing his natural precision like skin.

And beside Ben is the man mountain standing on my porch.

Briggs Purnell.

He isn’t smiling, exactly, but Ben has one arm hooked around his neck and is clearly trying to drag him into whatever joke is happening. Briggs looks annoyed.

He also looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

My throat goes tight. Ben looks so young.

I look up. Briggs is looking at the photo, not me. That helps. A little.