The Assassin

DOUBLE LIVES AREN'T ALL THAT GREAT
Cassie Dreandry knows from personal experience that being an assassin isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. At sixteen, Cassie lives a double life of days in high school and nights working for the government, killing international criminals under the alias of the Assassin.

TIME DOESN'T HEAL THE NEED FOR REVENGE
After a planned murder goes wrong, Cassie begins to receive strange letters and a blond man starts following her around town. As the letters become more and more threatening, Cassie realizes that the notes are from her biological father, a man who left her life when he went to jail for the death of her mother. Now, he’s back, and he won’t miss his opportunity to kill her like he did sixteen years ago.

IT'S KILLER AGAINST KILLER
Once the she puts the pieces together, Cassie’s adopted father, Joe, has gone missing and all the signs point to her biological father. Cassie must find both of her fathers to save one and stop the other, but that could mea

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4. Chapter Four

 

“Dad, I’m home.” I kick the door closed behind me and drop my backpack on the floor. “Do you know what Gilbert did today?” I ask. “He showed up at school to ask me about the Sharp murder.”

            My dad comes walking out of his bedroom. “Cassie, he talked to me earlier. I know all about it.” My dad shakes his head at me.

            I nod. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to talk about it. My job is a sore spot for him. The poor guy. Who’d have thought he’d end up being the father to a killer? Sometimes I think he probably wouldn’t have adopted me if he’d seen that one coming.

            “I’m sorry,” I say. It’s true. No one should have to live knowing their child is a killer.

            Granted, the feds always try to remove the guilt with things like “you’ve saved lives all across the world by killing this one person,” but even when they say that, I can tell it eats Dad alive.  He worries a bit too much.

            “Cassie, I just… You need to stop. This is too dangerous. How can they expect a sixteen year-old girl to kill people for a living?”

            “Dad, you know I can’t stop. I’m under a legal contract.”

            The moment flashes before his eyes. Twelve year-old me coming home excited to tell my dad I’d gotten a job with the government.

            The feds played a nasty game, they still do, and there wasn’t anything I can do about it. It’s all too much now.

            “You shouldn’t be. You were twelve when that happened. They had no right to go after a twelve year-old like that.”

            “At least I didn’t kill people when I was twelve.”

            He stops. “I should have gone with you that day. Do you realize how different our lives could be now if I’d gone with you that day?”

            I nod. “Dad, you can’t blame yourself. That guy was trained to manipulate people into signing those.”

            “Have they ever signed anyone that young besides you?”

            I shake my head. I’m the youngest they have. I’ve always wondered what it was that made me so appealing at the age of twelve.

            Granted, the guy stopped me right outside of my karate lessons, so he saw me attempting to kick ass, but still.

            I’m a much better ass-kicker now.

            “Look, I’m gonna go upstairs,” I say. Now isn’t the time to dwell on how the government has basically screwed my dad’s life over and how they basically own mine.

            He just nods, not bothering to stop me.

            I walk up the stairs to my bedroom. Unlike most New Yorkers, we happen to live in a spacious apartment, two stories, because my dad’s the CFO of some big business, As-co. They’re a huge recycling company and my dad makes a lot of money giving us the ability to live nicely.

            Upstairs, it’s a hallway of three bedrooms. Mine’s the middle one, the other two are guest rooms.

            I open the door and walk inside. The room’s a disaster, a result of the fact that midterms were last week and I was too busy studying instead of cleaning. The neat-freak in me starts to itch and I decide it’s obvious what my afternoon will be spent doing.

            Beth, my dad’s girlfriend, told me that the first step in picking up a bedroom is to make the bed, so I start there.

            When I pick the pillow up, a photograph hits the floor and I stop. I don’t have any photos in my bed, do I? I can’t think of who it would be of.

            Leaning down, I pick it up and look at it. The photo is old, at least twenty years. There’s a mark on the bottom of it where it looks like someone spilled something on it, but the woman in the picture is beautiful.

            Granted, she’s got a funky hairstyle, maybe late 80s or early 90s? It all blends in for me. Her hair is a light brown, but I can’t tell it’s the color naturally or just the tint of the photo.

            One thing is for certain, the woman looks incredibly happy. She’s got one of those smiles that is contagious and I realize I’m smiling too.

            Wherever she is, she must want it back. But how am I supposed to find her? I flip the picture over to see if there’s anything on it, but there’s nothing. No name or date. Just the “Kodak” watermark.

            I drop the photo onto my night stand, I’ll have to ask Dad about it later. Right now, I need to just focus on my room.

            Twenty minutes later and I’m shoving the last pair of socks into the dresser drawer. When determined, I can clean the whole apartment in about two and a half hours, but my room alone never takes too long.

            I shove the drawer closed with my knee and take one last look in the closet where it sits. All my clothes hang nicely on hangers, the shoes lined up neatly on the floor.

            Way back in the closet is a door. Everyone who asks is told that it’s just the electric box, but it’s way too big to be the electric box.

            Sitting behind that door is my outfit I wear to kill. My Assassin outfit.

            It’s a simple outfit. A black jacket, with a black dress and white tights, all tied together with black heel boots. Perfect for making me look like I blend in. It’s forgettable, which is what I need to be.

            It’s only a matter of time before I’ll be able to throw that thing away and never look back.

            But at least until I turn eighteen, I’m stuck throwing on the dress whenever they ask. Even after I quit, I still wonder.

            Will I be able to hide from all the demons that dress has brought me? 

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