“Go ahead. If I’m going to be your assistant, you should be the one to interview me. If you don’t like me I’ll leave. You can tell your husband that I just up and quit of my own accord.”

“If I don’t like you . . . you’ll . . . you’ll just quit?”

“If you want me to, yes. I don’t like being anywhere I’m not really wanted, and I don’t like making people feel uncomfortable.”

She shakes her head, unsure of how to respond.

I straighten my posture, meet her eyes. “Interview me.”

The corners of her mouth turn up, slowly at first, and then they move into a broad grin.

“Where did you go to school, Bell?”

That’s how it starts, and it goes on like that for about twenty minutes. Jessica asks all the questions that one is supposed to ask during an interview, and I give her all the answers that I know will please her. She isn’t creative, and her vices are still pumping through her veins, so she’s unable to come up with any questions that are clever or unpredictable. I have a well-practiced lie to give her in exchange for each one.

But I can tell Jessica thinks she’s putting me through the wringer. When she asks questions like, “In what areas do you think you need to improve?” her face glows with self-congratulatory enthusiasm. She loves it when I pretend to think seriously about the question, when I nervously bite my lip.

Jessica loves feeling like she’s in control of something . . . even if it’s just the employment status of an assistant.

And people don’t usually let go of the one thing they have control over. They tend to hold that close.

No one is going to be asking me to quit. My inferior position gives her purpose, justifies her.

When we’re done Jessica gives me a nod of satisfaction and brings her glass of wine to her lips. “Do you have any questions for me?”

I take a deep breath and look down at my hands. “What were the other assistants like?”

“They were . . . well . . .” She hesitates and then takes another long sip before continuing. “I probably shouldn’t say this . . . but they were all a bit . . . shady. I couldn’t figure out why my husband hired them.” Her face darkens, her improved appearance slipping quickly as she downs the last of her wine. Whatever medication she’s taking, it’s not doing a great job at handling her mood swings.

“Of course, we’ve only had three in ten years,” she continues, her voice a little higher, a little more shrill. “Three that lasted more than a couple of days. We’ve had lots that lasted less than that.”

“Why’s that?”