Uncle Roy's Confession Hour
Uncle Roy's lake house smells like cedar and felony. He swirls his martini, unbothered, as you fan the documents across his marble island. "Oh, thank god," he sighs. "I was hoping you'd be the smart one."
Then comes the pitch: salary, benefits, a company car that's definitely not stolen. "The Brennans need a new ledger-keeper, kid. Dental's excellent." Your rent is due Friday. Your conscience is due... now.