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Finally, you will record your efforts in your journal and describe your thoughts and feelings in detail, particularly your thoughts on what “discipline” means to you.

“Do this in memory of me, and go in peace to love and serve the Lord,” I murmured, mocking. “Wow.”

The second note had been nestled amongst a scant handful of bills and charity requests, and it had slipped into my hand as though it had been written just for me. I hadn’t meant to open it, but something about the smooth, sleek paper and lack of glue on the flap had been too tempting to pass up. Hey, it had been delivered to me, hadn’t it? Even though the number on the front still said 114, not 414, and even though I knew better, I’d read it anyway.

I still had no clue what the hell it was, or meant. I turned it over and over in my hands, then read it again. I closed the card and stared at it, but I couldn’t decipher its meaning.

Unless it had none. Maybe it was some sort of crazy new diet or self-help plan. I’d heard of a new plan that hooked members up with mentors. Sort of like a 12-step program for food addicts, it was supposed to help to have a buddy. It was the only scenario I came up with, but it didn’t feel right.

I lifted the card again, looking closer for clues. I caressed the paper. It had the same rough edge, like someone had cut one large sheet of paper into smaller sizes. No signature, and delivered twice in a row to the wrong person. Some buddy.

I kept the card safely in my hand. My fingers curved around it and my thumb caressed the thick paper. I looked at it again, the single sentence.

Discipline?

I still didn’t get it. I tucked the card back into its envelope, restraining myself from sniffing the ink. I wasn’t the only person standing at the mailboxes, and I didn’t want to attract that sort of attention. I found the mailbox for 114 and studied it, too. The brass numbers were stylishly weathered but not worn. There wasn’t really any mistaking a one for a four or vice versa, even if the number on the card itself were smudged.

“Excuse me.” The woman next to me gave me a smile meant to look apologetic but only looked annoyed. “I need to get to my box.”

“Oh. Sorry.” I folded closed the note and tucked it quickly into the slot for 114, wondering if by some luck it belonged to her.

She used her key to open a different box, though, and pulled out a thick sheaf of mail. Then she bent and looked through the hole to the office behind it, but the mail carrier had already moved down the row to the end. She straightened as she closed and locked her box, then riffled through her mail with a disgusted sniff.

“Nothing ever comes when it’s supposed to.” She didn’t say it to me, but I nodded anyway.

“I wish my bills wouldn’t come.”

She turned and gave me an up-and-down look as her mouth twitched into a grimace masquerading as another smile. Her gaze took in my coat, the same cut and color as hers but not as nice, my legs, clad in nude hose, and finally settled on my shoes. They were the only part of me that seemed worth her approval, but she raised a brow anyway and just tossed off a fake little laugh as she stuffed her mail into her Kate Spade bag and turned on her matching pumps.

Bitch.

Oh, I knew what discipline meant to me, all right. Discipline was what kept me from popping her in the back of the head with the heel of my barely-passing-inspection shoes. It’s what kept my chin high and my mouth fixed in a pleasant smile instead of turning down at the corners so the tears would stay burning behind my eyes instead of slipping out.

Discipline, or maybe it was pride. Or stubbornness. Whatever it was, I had enough to spare.

I waited until she’d gone before I crossed the lobby and pushed through the revolving door. Outside, gray and overcast skies echoed my mood, and the breeze brought the scent of cigarettes to me. I looked automatically, wondering if I’d see someone pondering discipline.

“Ari,” I said, surprised. “Hi.”

Miriam’s grandson tossed his butt into the sand-filled can and shrugged his coat higher around his neck. “Hey, Paige.”

“I didn’t know you lived here.”

He grinned. “I don’t. Just dropped off something for my grandma, you know?”

I didn’t know, but I nodded. “Tell her I said hello.”

“Stop by the shop and tell her yourself,” he suggested with a sweetly dipping smile.

It was nice to be flirted with, albeit without much heat. “I’ll do that. Have a good day.”

“You, too.”

I looked back as I crossed the alley to the parking garage, and Ari was still looking. Maybe there was a little heat, after all. And what woman didn’t like to be appreciated? I had a much bigger smile on my face than I had before, and it lasted me all the way to work.

I wasn’t even close to being late, but I might as well have been because by the time I got to my desk, my boss had already piled a stack of files on it. It could have been worse. He could have been standing over my desk with the empty coffeepot in his hand. He did that, sometimes, though I knew he was as capable of making coffee as I am. More, maybe, since he inhaled the high-octane stuff like it was air and I limited myself to a mug once or twice a day.

Spying the empty Starbucks cup in the trash, I knew he’d already had his first dose of the day. I was safe a little bit longer. I could get the files ordered and put away without him breathing down my neck. I decided to put the coffee on anyway, though, just in case. There were many days I could predict my boss’s every move, from the midmorning break when the bagel man came around, to his post-lunch trip to the bathroom.

Today wasn’t one of those days.

“Paige. Listen. I need you to get those files taken care of, okay?”

I turned from the small bar sink, where I’d been filling the coffeepot with water. “Right, Paul. Of course.”

Amazing how someone with only a community-college education could still deduce simple things.

“Good.” Paul nodded and smoothed his tie between his thumb and forefinger while he watched me fiddle with the coffeemaker.

I hadn’t yet figured out if Paul hovered because he expected me to screw up, or if he hoped I would. Either way, it didn’t bother me the way it would have some of the other personal assistants on the floor. Brenda, for example, liked to brag how her boss, Rhonda, spent most of her time traveling and she barely had to deal with her. She also liked to brag that she’d worked for Kelly Printing longer than that Jenny-come-lately Rhonda anyways, and knew what she was doing, so why should she have to run everything by someone else when she could get her work done faster and better without interference?

I never told Brenda I found Paul’s constant supervision more comforting than annoying. After all, if he never allowed me the autonomy to make decisions, I couldn’t exactly be held accountable for anything that went wrong. Right? Even when Paul did his share of traveling, he never left without making me a sheaf of notes and lists…lists.

I thought of the cards I’d found. Two, now. Two misdelivered notes with explicit, mysterious (to me) instructions. I could still feel the sleek paper under my fingertips. I regretted not taking the time to smell the ink.

With the coffee set to brewing, I turned to face Paul. “Anything else?”

“Not right now, thanks.” Paul smiled and disappeared back into his inner sanctum, leaving me with the cheery burble of the coffeepot and a bunch of files to herd.

This is what I knew about Paul Johnson, my boss. He had a chubby, pretty wife named Melissa who sometimes forgot to pick up his dry cleaning on time and two teenagers too busy with wholesome activities like sports and youth group to get into trouble. I knew that because I’d seen their photos and overheard his telephone conversations. He had an older brother, the unfortunately named Peter Johnson, with whom he played golf several times a year but not often enough to be good. I knew that because he’d asked me to make a reservation for him at one of the local golf courses and to call his brother to confirm the date. The request was slightly out of the realm of my professional duties, but I’d done it anyway. I also knew Paul was forty-seven years old, had earned his MBA from Wharton, attended church on Sundays with his family and drove a black, but not brand-new, Mercedes Benz.

Those were things I knew.

This is what I thought about Paul Johnson, my boss. He wasn’t a tyrant. Just precise. He held himself to the same level of perfection he expected from an assistant, and I appreciated that. He could be funny, though not often, and usually unexpectedly. He gave every project his full attention and effort because it pained him to do anything less. I understood and appreciated that, too.

I’d worked for him for almost six months. He’d told me to call him Paul, not Mr. Johnson, but we weren’t anything like friends. That was okay with me. I didn’t want my boss to be my chum.

Though sometimes it felt as if all I did was make coffee and file, my job did actually have more responsibility. I had documents to proof and send, invoices to fill out and appointments to book. I did all this to leave Paul free to do whatever it was that he did all day long in his lush, swanky office. If hard pressed, I wouldn’t have been able to tell anyone what, exactly, that was. I didn’t hate or love my job, but it sure as hell beat working at a sub shop or being an au pair, which was what I’d done while looking for a job that would use my freshly minted degree in business administration. If I never slung another plate of hash or wiped another ass I’d be happy for a good long time.

There was another advantage to having a boss who needed everything just so. He was willing to do what it took to make sure he got what he wanted, whether it was leaving me a three-page e-mail of the week’s work, or taking five thorough minutes to describe to me exactly what he wanted me to get him for lunch. Also, if he sent me out to get him some lunch, he usually treated me.

Today it was a pastrami sandwich on rye from Mrs. Deli. Mustard, no mayo. No tomatoes, no onion. Lettuce on the side. Potato salad and an extralarge iced tea with real sugar, not what he called cancer in a packet.

I met Brenda in the hall on my way back. She took one look at the bulging paper sack from Mrs. Deli and sniffed hungrily. She held a small, boxed salad I recognized as coming from the same guy who sold bagels in the morning. I’d had one of those salads once, when I’d forgotten my lunch and had been so desperate for food I’d been willing to use my laundry quarters.

“Gawd, Paige,” Brenda said. “Lucky. I wish my boss would send me out for lunch. Heck, I’d like to just get out of this place for an hour.”

Officially, we got an hour for lunch, but since our building was located in a business complex on the outskirts of the city, by the time you drove to anyplace decent for lunch, you’d barely have enough time to eat and come back. Rhonda might not hover over Brenda, but she was a stickler about office hours and break time. Everything has a trade-off.