“Maybe we should discuss what exactly being your assistant includes,” I said. “Hours, benefits, and pay.” I wasn’t sure how all of this worked, but I wasn’t stupid.

“Do you need a job?”

“Yes.”

“Then what does it matter?” he asked, chewing on the toothpick in his mouth.

“It matters.”

He sighed, leaning back in his worn chair. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Your Philip Edson’s daughter, ain’t ya? You’ve also been kicked out of my bar twice this year alone. Why do you need a job? I’m not in the business of hiring lazy people who don’t need a job.”

“Sounds like you haven’t hired anyone.”

Wick glared at me, and then the corners of his mouth turned up. “I need you to file, keep my calendar, run errands, help Jojo on occasion, schedule ads, and vet any calls I receive. Jojo is tired of hearing from every journalist in the state and everyone who owns a camera thinking they’re a photographer. I need someone firm. I need someone organized. Is that you?”

“I can be firm when you need me to, but I can’t promise I’m organized.”

Wick pointed at me. “But you’re honest.”

“I guess.”

“Thirty-six hours a week, one week of vacation … unpaid, no benefits, this ain’t a charity.”

I shrugged. “I don’t need it anyway. My parents keep my insurance. Or, they did. I need to ask them about that.”

“You haven’t said why you’re here. Everyone knows your sister works for your dad. Why aren’t you? Has there been a family uprising, or are you some kind of spy from the paper?”

I couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “A spy? No. If you’ll notice,” I said, reaching over to point at the paper on his desk, “that’s not on my résumé. It’s also none of your business.”

Wick grinned, his crooked, yellowing teeth making me never want to pick up another cigarette again.

“Do you smoke?” he asked.

“Yes?” I said, sitting up and feeling a bit creeped out that he’d mentioned the very thing I was thinking about.

“You’re hired. Nine hundred a week. You’ll start tomorrow. Let’s go have a smoke in the back.”

“Oh. Uh … okay, then.”

I followed Wick out of his office, down a hallway lined with boxes, and then out a back door. My boots crunched in the snow, and I looked up, letting the flakes fall and melt on my face.

Wick pulled a cigarette from a soft pack in his shirt pocket and a lighter from the back pocket of his Wranglers and hunched over. He cupped his hand around the flame and puffed, then held out his lighter for me to do the same. I leaned in, took a drag, and then startled when two men came around the corner.

“Wick!” Tyler said, slowing mid-step the moment he recognized me.