"Finnegan Harker, please report to the principal's office immediately."
There I was—middle of history class, one week left until summer break, trying (and failing) to make an origami swan. Don't ask.
The intercom blared, slicing through the classroom like a guillotine. I blinked up, startled by the sharp bark of my Irish name. Every head turned toward me. Some looked amused, others sympathetic. The duality of society, I guess.
But only one thing really stood out: I was probably the last person who'd get called to the office before the year ended.
What did I do this time?
I mentally flipped through the greatest hits: that little mishap with the goat exhibit on prank day... The book report I did on Hitler (not a Nazi, just ballsy)... The time I scaled Coach John's house to retrieve Fred's soccer ball and accidentally witnessed something very not safe for my eyeballs. Still don't know how Fred lost his ball there—he doesn't even live near Coach John.
Anyway, none of that seemed worthy of an end-of-year summons. I mind my business. I do my work. I mostly stay out of trouble.
Apparently, that wasn't enough.
I stood slowly. Mr. Stevens offered me a nervous, sympathetic smile—the kind that said "Godspeed." I didn't return it. Not to be rude, I just... didn't have the energy. I walked out the classroom door and into the empty hallway.
The corridors were quiet, save for the faint buzz of overhead lights and the occasional distant locker slam. Rows of dented lockers and questionable water fountains flanked me as I walked, hands jammed into my pockets, brain spinning.
I had plans for the summer. Glorious, low-energy plans. Step one: go home. Step two: lie in bed. Step three: get up occasionally to remind my body I'm alive. Step four: lie in bed again. Step five: maybe help clean so Mom doesn't come home stressed after another day of dealing with murder victims' families.
Was it boring? Sure. But it was mine. And it was safe.
The idea of that being interrupted made me uneasy.
I shelved the spiraling thoughts when I reached the front office. This wasn't the time for introspection. I took a deep breath and stepped inside.
At the reception desk sat Ms. Dorothy—a short, plump woman with warm eyes and glasses that always slid too far down her nose. She looked up and smiled brightly.
"Finn! Thanks for coming. Mr. Caldwell will see you shortly."
I frowned. "He can't see me now?"
"He's finishing up an important meeting," she said with a light chuckle.
"Then why call me down now? Could've waited until after. Or, you know, never."
Ms. Dorothy laughed. "Aren't you hilarious? No, it's something urgent—an update he received. About you."
I raised a brow. "An update?"
"Something Mr. Daniels applied for on your behalf. But I'll let Mr. Caldwell explain."
Mr. Daniels?
Now that was a name I hadn't expected.
He was my homeroom teacher. One of those "cool teachers" who styled himself after Robin Williams in Dead Poets Society—except he actually pulled it off. Karaoke skills aside. (They sucked. Bad. I told him that once in private. He laughed and said, 'Well, I owe my wife ten bucks—she's not the only one who thinks so.')
He always had this weird belief in me. Said I was wasting potential here. That I needed a place where I could actually grow.
I told him my mom being a homicide cop didn't mean we could afford a diamond-encrusted private school.
Still, something about this felt off. Like one of those moments before your life decides to upend itself just for the drama.
I pushed the thought aside and took a seat on the bench. Ten long, fidgety minutes passed. I resisted the urge to jump out the window and make a break for it.
Then the office door opened.
I expected someone—anyone—to walk out. But no one did.
Instead, Mr. Caldwell himself stepped into the waiting area.
"Finnegan," he said warmly, extending a hand. "Good to see you."
I shook it, awkwardly. "It's Finn, sir. We've been over this. Repeatedly."
He chuckled. "Right. You're particular about your name."
"It just sounds weird when anyone but my mom says it. Especially when she's mad."
"Well," he said with a twinkle in his eye, "you'll be glad to know there's nothing to be mad about. In fact, I've got excellent news."
I blinked. "That... seems suspicious."
He just smiled and gestured toward his office. I followed him in.
Caldwell's office looked like every principal's office in every movie ever. Mahogany desk. White-tiled floors. Bookshelves that held more knickknacks than books. A couple of chairs for guests. Nothing fancy.
Except today, the chairs weren't empty.
Sitting across from the desk was a man in a black trench coat, flanked by two men who looked like they'd walked out of a Secret Service training manual. Suits. Earpieces. That weird "I'll body-slam a child if I have to" posture.
The man in the coat turned as I entered.
I stopped cold.
He was older now—mid-fifties maybe—but still sharp. His hair was slicked back, streaked with gray. His beard was immaculately trimmed. A scar traced his right cheek like punctuation. His suit was immaculate, his shoes so polished they probably feared dirt. Everything about him screamed power, money... and something else. Control.
But it was his eyes that struck me.
Hard. Cold. Calculating.
But behind them, a glint of warmth. Recognition.
Then he smiled.
"Hello, Finn," he said, Brooklyn accent thick and familiar. "It's good to see you."
I stared at him, stunned. My voice barely worked.
"Mr. Bertelli?"