The Lost by Vicki Pettersson

“-tisms” rattled off the old stairwell, and as much as Kit tried to ignore them, they also rattled in her brain. Yes, there were those who believed she worked at the paper solely because it’d been started by her great-grandfather, but none of those people really knew Marin Wilson. She hired, and kept, only the best.
    â€œHey,” Grif huffed, finally catching up with Kit halfway down the second-to-last flight. “What was that all about?”
    â€œThat was me being an idiot,” she muttered, wincing again as she remembered the disdain in Marin’s stare. Kit worked hard to prove to her aunt that while she might be the mercurial Shirley Wilson’s—Marin’s sister—daughter, her father’s stalwart blood roared in her veins, too. It burned that she could blow it so damned easily. “I didn’t prepare before I went in there. I didn’t give her anything to work with or bring anything new to the table. I failed.”
    â€œFailed?” She could feel Grif staring at her. “Honey, you’ve barely begun.”
    â€œExactly.”
    Grif remained silent for a moment. “But there was more. That was . . . personal.”
    Kit reached the ground floor, and pushed steel, emerging into the open air. The heat ambushed her, and she blew out a breath against it. “She expects a lot from me.”
    â€œMore than the other reporters?”
    â€œOf course.” Tucking her head, she lit her cigarette.
    â€œBecause she hopes you’ll take the editorial reins someday?”
    Inhaling deeply, Kit looked at him, thinking maybe if she said the words aloud they wouldn’t weigh on her so very much. “Because if I don’t, then I’ll be just like my mother.”
    Grif spoke softly. “And what’s wrong with that?”
    â€œNothing. Unless you were her sister.” Kit smiled wryly, then shrugged. “My mother was . . . golden. It was hard on Marin.”
    â€œYou’re standing up for her,” Grif said, with a tilt of his head.
    Kit took a drag, then sighed. “Being my mother’s daughter wasn’t easy, either.”
    Shirley Wilson-Craig—the beautiful black sheep of the Dean S. Wilson newspaper fortune—had married blue-collar, and at the time it was a scandal among the Vegas elite. Shirley had reveled in it, which made Kit smile . . . but it also meant Kit had a mother with a high-class pedigree and no sense of duty, and a father who valued duty but possessed an utter disregard for class.
    Kit disregarded nothing. She was twelve when cancer claimed her mother’s life, and sixteen when that bullet felled her father. After she’d grieved the second time—broke down, as she told Grif, and put herself back together yet again—she swore that whatever remained of her tenuous life would hold meaning. That’s why she was so upset now. She hadn’t just disappointed Marin. She’d disappointed herself.
    â€œI thought you loved her,” Grif said, not understanding.
    â€œI did. Still do.” She spoke quickly, because her heart came near to bursting every time she thought of her mother. “She was perfect. Beautiful, graceful, aristocratic, wicked smart.” She smiled wistfully, but the smile faded as a thought ambushed her: If I were more like my mother, Grif would have already forgotten Evelyn Shaw.
    â€œYou’re all of those things, too,” Grif said, his timing uncanny.
    Kit snorted, but waved away his raised eyebrow by saying, “Marin has some other words for me . . . but, look, she’s under a lot of pressure. Most newspapers are worth less than the paper they’re printed on, these days, and the fate of ours weighs on her. So, no, I’m not standing up for her, but I don’t blame her, either. Besides, a dead woman can still cast a long shadow. If anyone knows that, it should be you.”
    She hadn’t meant to say that