Maid by Mistake - Miley Maine Page 0,1

to have the chance to do something interesting, something that might make a difference.

But I had to keep it to myself. My dad finding out about my new job was the last thing I needed. Yes, I was twenty-four, but I still lived with my parents. They had convinced me to stay through college, arguing that I’d have a much easier time studying in my comfortable space. Dorm rooms were gross, they’d claimed.

They’d been right about that, but the University of Chicago was strict, and I had to live on campus for the first two years.

Then when I was a junior in college, my mother passed away from a sudden illness. After her death, I’d felt too guilty to leave my father living alone.

So I was now an adult, sneaking around and concealing what I was about to do.

For the new job, I’d had to interview using my real name, but my boss had agreed to let me use a fake name with the rest of the staff. And assuming I ever got a story published, my pseudonym would be the one used in print.

I had pitched my new boss the idea of writing a story about the gambling ring.

He peered at me over his glasses. “You think you can actually get some details.”

“I do.”

“You’re not the first person to pitch this story. Or even the twentieth. It never goes anywhere,” he said. “Never.”

Shit. I had to think quickly. “What if I work on the gambling ring in my free time? And work on another story during work hours?”

“What story?”

“I want to cover the challenge of finding housing for recovering drug addicts.”

It was an issue I had no personal experience with, but my college roommate had. She’d busted her ass to make it to college on a full scholarship.

But she spent half her time trying to manage her family back home in Kentucky. Her mother and two brothers were addicted to opioids. One brother had been injured working as a diesel mechanic, and that was where it started. I’d spent two years watching her try to help them from afar. They’d get arrested for using drugs, spend time in jail, and then be released. But no one would hire them, and no one would let them rent property. Most of the time, the landlords wouldn’t let them even apply.

Then they ended up right where they started -- going back to their previous habits.

“It’s a serious problem!” I insisted.

He flattened his lips. “Fine. Go for it.”

Finally.

“Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

In the weeks after I promised my boss that I wouldn't let him down, I found that was much easier said than done.

I got plenty of content for my housing story. I got interviews with social workers, nurses, doctors, community leaders, teachers and even the mayor.

But no one would talk to me about organized crime, or the gambling ring.

Which wasn’t surprising. I should have been well-aware that no one was going to tell Ava Ackland anything remotely useful. They’d all recognize my dad’s name.

My father owned half of Chicago. He owned a tax advisory and auditing firm called Ackland Financial Group, and he owned a large portion of an airline, as well as various hotels. He was known as a philanthropist, and contributed to several well-known charities. He was always in the papers and being talked up by the media.

While trying to gather sources for my story, I soon realized that my fake name of Amy Smith wasn’t enough to make people trust me. Maybe it was my refined accent? My polished BMW? My thousand dollar suits and five-hundred dollar shoes probably weren’t doing me any favors either.

If I wanted any information, I was going to have to get my hands dirty, that much was obvious.

I liked looking nice in my free time, and I wanted to look professional at work, but I had never really paid much attention to how that happened. I paid for someone to help me shop, and someone to style my hair and choose the makeup that worked best for me.

So it wasn’t enough for me to pull on a brand new pair of cheap jeans and t-shirt. I’d still have clear skin and white teeth and perfectly manicured nails. I was going to have to stop going to the stylist and stop wearing my expensive makeup.

On a Friday night, I went to a thrift store. I’d never been inside a thrift shop before, but I had been to an antique store. The experience was