In most cases, he didn’t take jobs that involved kids. Mr. Cox considered college students kids. It said so on his private automatic voice message: “I’m not takin’ a hit on anyone under twenty three.” Let’em live for a bit first. What could a kid do? Insult someone’s mother? Once, some kid, pale as a ghost, tried to hire Mr. Cox to help kill himself, and he decided to talk him out of it over taking the easy money. He hoped that kid gave himself a chance. If the kid really wanted to go, he had at least five bottles of pills laying on his desk.

When Mr. Cox heard his most recent voice message, the first thing he thought was holy balls, where’s this guy getting the cash. His second thought was I’ve heard this one before. It’s not often a client gives him a name that he’s heard of before. His services weren’t top class. He wasn’t a professional hitman or an assassin. He was more like a lone bandit. His work was quick, casual, and downright harmless to the state of the world. Most hits are personal grievances. No one knows who the hell that neighbor who poisoned their expensive pedigree yapper of a dog, Scruffy, with arsenic laced raw meat is. No one knows that double crossing, two faced, bitch who decided she would rather have a lot more excitement in her life over her ex-boyfriend (she did have an exciting life in the end after-all). But a name that he recognized? That’s something strange.

“Lionel Nole?” He had to verbalize the name in his scratchy soft voice. Cigars as a teen for five years does that.

The request came from no one. At least, that's the best assumption he could make. A recorded robotic voice, not a voice changer or any of that shit that has a chance of being broken down and recognized. No names. No reasons. His phone said it came in on Monday at 3:27 P.M., but Mr. Cox doubted that it was actually sent at that time. The only information that he gained was the target name and a big deposit into one of his accounts.

It took him a few Google searches to find the kid. Some journalists wrote an article two months back. Kid just graduated high school. Lots of kids never graduated from that high school. The fuck someone want him dead for? Another Google search and that journalist was reported dead. Suicide, it read.

Maybe he could see why someone wants the guy dead. That first article pointed out a correlation between this Nole kid and people around him having a shitty life. Mr. Cox began sweating. He felt a chill. “Damn allergies,” he muttered to himself.

Something was off about this one. And the money was enticing: triple his normal fees up front with a promise for more. It felt easy. Mr. Cox had a sixth sense when it came to this. Kept him going for the last nine years since he made that critical economic thought that some people just want other people dead and gone and no one’s out there doing it. It was an effective business plan. Just had to avoid the no-gos, the flakers, and the law. Last time an agency caught a whiff of him, they got him alright. Cops are good at what they do, hats off to them. The law; however, was different. He had a good lawyer and a better argument. Got off free as a spring bird.

He didn’t have to take it. He never did. Mr. Cox was an honest man. He’d send that money right back to where it came from, if that account existed anymore. His voice message just tells his clients to check the obits wherever they’re looking. His assumption: they know the person they want dead. Something felt wrong here, but it also felt important. There’s a good reason someone wants this kid dead. No one spends that much money without good reason.

You don’t spend nine years in the business of killing people without a tad bit of genius. Mr. Cox was no exception. There was a picture of Lionel in that news article. Public school yearbook archives were a godsend. University directory searches were even better. Mr. Cox really should have been on the other side of things. He’d make for a good detective. A certificate in forensics, and if he ever finished his degree, a bachelor's in economics would have taken him far. Luckily for him, he still could pass for a tired, wrangled PhD candidate who’s one poorly timed espresso from breaking.

This is where that quarter of the initial bill went. Precaution. No buying an on campus studio apartment. He rode the public train to campus daily. He bought a bike on campus in cash and left it on campus and bought a cheap computer with basic processing for five hundred. This took time. It took money. The more money he received, the more successful he would be: ‘how much is it really worth?’ That’s the last thing his message says.

Mr. Cox was going all out for this one. He had the resources. College campuses were the most insecure places in the world. Everything’s public. Events were free. No id checks. They were great. He just needed to stay busy, look busy, and pretend that he was as self-important and inspired as the rest of his ‘colleagues.’

It took two weeks to spot Lionel Nole eating dinner with a ‘friend’ of his. Can’t do this job for too long without being able to read the room. They weren’t friends. Neither of them wanted to be friends. But here they were, sitting and eating and talking and smiling. Well, that other kid was smiling. Lionel just pursed his lips and sighed. Mr. Cox was too far away to lip read, but was fairly simple to guess what they were saying. Lionel needed help and his ‘friend’ was gloating about it. A few minutes later, Lionel stood up to leave and Mr. Cox caught the faintest hint of a smile. It was just a slight curve to his lips, but he couldn’t help but think that he misread them.

Am I shaking my leg? He caught himself. He used to do that during exams way back during his first year. He stopped typing gibberish into his laptop and put pressure on his leg. He felt a sinking feeling and scanned the room. Students eating. It was just students eating. The friend. Check the friend, Mr Cox’s conscious burned into his frontal lobe.

The friend was shaking, shaking badly. He clutched his shoulders. It wasn’t just his leg. It was his whole body. He took some pills from a pocket in his backpack, poured five of them (five!) and a swig of water. Mr. Cox thought this appeared familiar. He ignored it. That kid was not his focus. He stood to go to the bathroom, widening his eyes and scratching the scruff he’s refused to shave for the past two weeks.

This place was too loud for him, and he did actually need to use the bathroom. If he could catch a glimpse of where Lionel was headed, that would speed his job up as well but, oh! By the gods, why did the sound of a blow dryer spread a creeping dread across Mr. Cox’s body? It hissed in his ear, fighting that little voice in his head, but it wasn’t a little voice anymore. It was screaming GET OUT. DO NOT GO NEAR THERE. It was ludicrous, but Mr. Cox was smart enough to hold his place. He began to turn around, but caught a glimpse of Lionel walking out of the bathroom. Training kept Mr. Cox calm. Composed. Natural. If anyone besides Lionel was watching him, it would have looked odd that Mr. Cox was walking to the bathroom, then immediately turned around but no, people don’t do that. Lionel doesn’t know I was walking this direction. So despite his bladder, he turned around with the appearance of perfect serenity to pick up his laptop and case and go home, now!

There was something wrong with Lionel Nole. Two hours later, back at his home, he sent the money back. All of whatever remained of the initial fee. Mr. Cox leaned back in his chair and exhaled for what seemed to be the first time since his eyes met Lionel’s.

A notification popped on his computer screen. He pulled himself back into a proper seated position and wished he hadn’t. There was a flickering notification by it: a message. One day, it always comes back to you. The message began with a smiley face and the text “for Scruffy.”