Page 1 of The Hitman

Chapter One

Callie

T oday is officially the worst day of my life.

Not in the trivial sense of getting my high heel stuck in a sewer grate in downtown Chicago for the third time . But more like, helplessly watching my career burn to ashes right before my eyes.

“I’m sorry, Miss Finley,” Principal Clemons says after sliding a slip of paper to me. “The board has deliberated over the accusations presented against you, and we’ve decided to release you via voluntary resignation.”

I mean to scoff, but end up ungracefully choking on my spit. Shelly, the vice principal, offers me a mini water bottle.

“You can’t do this,” I rasp after several sips. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Clemons purses his lips before leaning his elbows on his desk. “Willow Grove High School strictly prohibits any teacher-student relations, inside or outside the facility.”

“Wait.” My brow furrows at his accusing tone. “You’re not suggesting I was involved in an inappropriate relationship with Kyle, are you?”

His lengthy pause is damning enough, but eventually, he says, “There have been multiple sources who have come forward with evidence that you were. Detailed text messages between you and other teachers.”

I’m shown an extensive collection of messages between myself and two other teachers. My chest hollows despite my pounding heart. It appears I’ve trusted snakes with this delicate situation instead of the friends I regretfully thought I had.

“It’s not what it looks like, I swear. I was only trying to help him.” The walls begin to close in on me when I turn to the vice principal. “Shelly, you know me. Tell him I would never do something like that.”

She directs her attention to the floor, refusing to meet my gaze, and my heart sinks.

So much for women supporting women.

“Allowing Mr. Henderson to sleep on your couch for any period of time is deemed inappropriate, but you went the extra mile by feeding, clothing, and housing him for two weeks.” He drops the pen he was holding with a heavy sigh.

“Frankly, Callie, I’m not sure what you expected us to think about this. ”

Anger boils in my gut. The unfairness of their accusations gnaws at my composure, and by the time I find my voice, I’m close to losing it altogether.

“What I expect is for you to have a better idea of what your students are suffering through instead of hiding behind your desk, punching numbers and cutting corners for the board.”

He blanches at my sardonic tone. “Excuse me?”

“Principal Clemons, Kyle’s dad is an alcoholic, his mom is a drug addict, and just a few months shy of graduation, he had the guts to say enough is enough.

” My hands tremble in my lap, but I won’t take this lying down.

I won’t sit back and let them fire me without speaking my truth.

“When I caught on, he’d already been living out of his car for a week.

He told me he didn’t think he could keep going, but he was so close to finishing the school year, making him the first person in his family to graduate.

I didn’t want him thinking his only option was dropping out and becoming like them . What’s so wrong with that?”

They exchange wary glances, and for a na?ve moment, I think maybe they’ll reconsider.

“Regardless of his unfortunate situation, as his teacher, it’s not your job to step in.”

I blink, floored that a school praised for academic rigor and “nurturing tomorrow’s leaders” could be led with such heartlessness.

“You’re wrong.” I yank the resignation form toward me, scribble my signature at the bottom, then look Clemons dead in the eye. “It’s our job to do what’s best for them— all of them—and I’m disgusted to have been associated with a system that refuses to see that.”

They’re speechless by the time I stand and turn for the door.

I duck my head as I walk to my classroom to gather my things. Not even the stale scent of the gymnasium, sounds of hurried steps, or tinkling laughter from the students I’ve come to adore can mend the ache in my chest.

The bell rang nearly ten minutes ago, so I’m surprised to find a lanky young man, wearing clothes that don’t fit quite right, leaning against my desk.

Kyle looks about as well as I do with dark circles under his eyes and a solemn expression. “They fire you?” he asks bluntly.

“Yeah.”

I can’t make myself look around at the room that’s been mine for the last three years. Instead, I get to work packing up rather than crying over crushed dreams.

“Shit. This is all my fault,” he says. “Let me try to talk to them again.”

“This is not your fault.” Shaking my head, I drop my files and supplies into an empty box. “You barely avoided expulsion as it is, and their minds are made up. Talking in circles to try to get them to understand won’t do either of us any good.”

Especially since they think I’m a predator.

Though I don’t tell him that.

He squeezes my shoulder and tears threaten. “If it weren’t for you, I would’ve given up hope weeks ago. I’m sorry this happened, Miss Finley, but I really can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done.”

And that’s what’s fucked up about this whole mess… Kyle is a good kid. He deserves to take charge of his life, and I’m proud of him for doing it sooner than I did.

I spent too many years letting my parents define who I was.

And losing the job that helped me finally find myself outside of them is devastating, yes.

But if I had to do it all over, I’d help Kyle again in a heartbeat.

I’d help any of my students the same way because compassion is what makes us human.

It’s what heals , and for me, that’s the whole point.

I pat his hand before hefting the box off my desk. “Just promise me you’ll graduate.”

I’m given a genuine smile. “I promise.”

Outside, the bright Chicago sky and chirping birds do little to brighten my spirit. I chuck my things into the back seat of my 2008 Honda Accord, then open the glove box in search of my sad girl classics mixed CD.

I trace the hot pink Sharpie flowers on the front, smiling at the relic I burned years ago—thanks to a sketchy music downloading site, of course—and then crank Kelly Clarkson’s, ‘Because of You.’

I peel out of the parking lot, belting the lyrics at the top of my lungs. The tears come easily, and they don’t stop pouring for the two days that follow.

It’s only once I get a text from that traitor, Shelly, that I dare to hope I won’t end up evicted by the end of the month.

I pause my hours-long binge of Hell’s Kitchen to read her text.

There’s a second grader in Mrs. Sullivan’s class who was pulled from the roll recently. His mom was severely injured in a car accident, and rumor has it, his guardian is the one who put this ad out for a nanny.

“Nanny?” I mutter.

Unless my neighbor’s cats count, I haven’t had a babysitting job since I was a teen.

You didn’t deserve what happened. I’m sorry. Hope this helps.

I almost delete her messages, thinking this may be a cruel joke. But I’m drunk on Oreo cookies and milk, brain-numb from hours of bad reality TV, and considering I’m in no position to be picky, maybe I’m a little curious, too.

I click on the link she sent and read through the job description.

It’s straight to the point, offering a three-month nanny contract specifically for applicants who have a teaching background.

This position requires an adaptable caregiver to assist with temporary guardianship duties in a private household. The candidate must be comfortable with non- traditional routines and limited disclosure. Discretion is non-negotiable. An NDA will be provided during the interview.

Okay, this person is either super rich or works for the CIA.

Maybe both?

The only name listed on the application is J. Knight, which has a secret agent feel to it, to be honest. But as I keep reading, I damn near choke when I see that the position pays double my yearly salary.

“There’s no way this is legit,” I whisper.

Everything about this application is cryptic, down to there being no address or phone number provided to contact the person who listed it.

But I’m jobless with rent and bills to pay, and as hard as it is to admit, I’m desperate. Besides, given the delicate situation with the kid’s mom, this person may be trying to keep things private for the family’s sake.

It couldn’t hurt to at least interview for the job, even if it doesn’t work out, right?

I grab my laptop off the table, give my resume a quick update, and after several meticulous read-throughs, I upload the file.

All that’s left to do is hit submit, but the cursor hovers over the button before I pull the trigger. I’m not sure what’s stopping me, considering the rumors surrounding me and Kyle have all but tarnished my teaching career, and I’ve lost the only friends I had in the midst of this whole scandal.

I glance at the name and email in the contact section again.

If this turns out to be too good to be true, I’ll just thank them for their time and politely decline. Besides, Shelly may be a traitor, but I don’t think she’d send me a job posting that’s linked to a potential criminal.

At least, not intentionally.

“Here goes nothing.”

I submit the necessary information, not expecting to hear back from this mystery person for at least a week, but an hour after I’ve closed my laptop and dove right back into devouring Oreos in my bathrobe, my phone pings.

I swipe open the email to find an address, a meeting time, and a curt response.

Thank you for your application, Miss Finley. I expect to see you first thing in the morning to complete your interview.