By Kelley Armstrong
Reader Warning:The work you are about to read is first draft. What does that mean? Well, put it this
way...showing it to you is the literary equivalent of letting you see me when I first wake up. Scary stuff.
Before a book goes to press, it has been through countless readers, editors, copyeditors, proofreaders
etc. What you see here was posted as soon as it was written, and hasn't been revisited yet for editing.
This novella is intended for mature readers. If it was a movie, it'd have warnings for coarse language,
sexual content, violence...and maybe a few more.
Dare to continue? Jump right in.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
"Your hours will be four to eight Tuesdays, nine to five Saturdays and the occasional Sunday afternoon."
Ms. Milken looked up at me, watery blue eyes swimming behind her thick glasses. "I trust that won’t be
"Twelve hours?" I said. "I thought— But when you interviewed me you said a minimum of twenty hours
"Business needs change, Elena," she said, enunciating slowly as if I might be too dim to understand this
complex concept. "And I believe I said apossibility of twenty hours a week."
I clamped the tip of my tongue between my teeth and looked away. I knew she’d said twenty hours. A
minimum of twenty hours. And damn it, I needed every one of those hours.
I pushed my chair back, hitting one of the two-foot drifts of paper that blanketed the floor. Didn’t look
like business was slow. And how the hell could her ‘business needs’ have changed that much since she
interviewed me two weeks ago?
As I composed myself, I glanced around the office. Blown-up copies of news articles covered the walls,
struggling to convince the visitor that this was a real newspaper, instead of a weekly classified ad rag that
tossed a few amateurish features among the advertisements. When I saw those articles, so proudly
displayed, I knew what had happened.