Bad (4 page)

 

SAM MOON CURSED SILENTLY UNDER
his breath as he dropped a quarter into the phone's coin slot. It figured that class would let out fifteen minutes late when he had to meet Gaia. Students jostled him, hurrying out the door and into the cold night. She would wait for him, though, wouldn't she? Yeah. Of course she would. He just had to take care of one little thing first.

One Little Thing

He punched the number into the keypad. It hadn't taken him long to memorize it. After calling the hospital several times daily to check on Mike Suarez's condition, the number was as firmly ingrained in his mind as his own birthday.

Once again, as the phone rang on the other end, Sam's head swam with the horrible images of finding Mike unconscious on the tattered, stained university-issued couch in the common area of their suite.
Every time he called, it was always the same. It was torture.
He'd assumed that Mike had drunk himself into a stupor at a keg party the night before. Then he'd seen the needle sticking out of Mike's arm. The rest was a blur: the paramedics, the drive to the hospital . . . the confirmation of his worst fear: Mike had overdosed on heroin, and he was in a coma.

But that wasn't even the worst of it. Sam could have handled that. He could have handled the possibility that Mike had just done something tremendously idiotic in a weak moment and would never do it again. But the horrible truth was, Mike
hadn't
been responsible for the poison that had entered his bloodstream.
He had been a victim of Ella Niven.
Another
victim. A casualty of a psychopath.

But at least that witch couldn't harm anyone anymore—

“Fifth-floor nurses' desk,” a familiar voice answered.

“Is this Michelle?” Sam asked. He knew most of the nurses by now. He was also aware that he'd managed to endear himself to them. Which was good. They were the ones who knew everything there was to know.

“Yes,” she answered. “Who's this?”

“It's Sam. Sam Moon.”

“Oh . . . hi, Sam.” Immediately her tone softened. She sounded cheerful. That had to be a good sign. “I was starting to think I wasn't going to hear from you today.”

“How is he? Is there news?”

There was no reply. On the other end of the phone Sam could hear Michelle breathing. He knew she wasn't supposed to give out information regarding a patient's condition over the phone.

“Please, Michelle,” he coaxed. “I need to know.”

She sighed. “Well, let's just say that your friend is out of the woods,” she said finally. “We think he's going to make it.”

Thank God. Thank God. Thank . . .

Sam bit his lip to keep from crying.
Relief spread in warm waves through his body.
He took a deep breath. “Is there any . . . permanent brain damage?” he asked.

Another pause. “It's too soon to say—but no. The doctors don't think so.”

“Thank you, Michelle,” Sam managed, his voice shaking. He hadn't even allowed himself to hope for news this good. “Thank you so much....”

“You didn't hear this from me, Sam,” she told him.

“No. Of course not. Bye, Michelle.” He hung up the pay phone and sprinted out of the building.

Sam's lips trembled as he ran. Mike was going to be okay. He would heal, and then he would return to school and finish the semester. And no one would ever have to know what really happened. Sam wouldn't have to tell Gaia the truth. She had suffered enough because of his fling with Ella.
There was no need to burden her with this new piece of information.
It didn't matter now. Mike was going to pull through.

Sam picked up his pace, whistling under his breath. Finally his life was falling into place. In less
than five minutes he would arrive at his dorm. When he got there, Gaia would be waiting. And for the first time
ever
they would be able to hang out without a kidnapping, mugging, or murder getting in the way of their good time. He could already feel Gaia's long, silky blond hair tickling his face. He could see the creamy skin of her cheek....

He knew he was grinning like Howdy Doody, but he didn't care. He could think whatever sappy thoughts he wanted. He made a mental note to look up the word
bliss
in the dictionary. He was fairly sure that Gaia Moore would be part of the definition.

A Private Matter

THE CABDRIVER KEPT GLANCING IN
his rearview mirror. And Heather Gannis's glare kept meeting him there. God, was he annoying. Why did he have to stare at Phoebe? Hadn't he ever seen an extremely thin, extremely pale girl before? This was Manhattan, for Christ's sake. Pale, skinny women lined the sidewalks from Wall Street to Harlem.
Everyone looked like a waif.
There was even a fashion term for it: “Heroin Chic.” Lame term. Then again, it
was a lame look, too. There was nothing glamorous about drugging yourself to death—or in Phoebe's case, starving yourself.

With one arm around Phoebe's bony back, Heather leaned forward and rapped on the bullet-proof plastic shield that separated the driver from the backseat. “Can you turn that music
down?”
she yelled. “I'm getting a migraine.” She never understood why all cabdrivers insisted on blasting strange, Eastern-sounding music at top volume. It was as if they didn't
want
to get tipped. The driver stared blankly into the mirror yet again, but he turned down the music to an almost acceptable level.

“Heather, chill out,” Phoebe said, smiling weakly. “We're almost there.”

Heather frowned. But then she forced a grin. “Hey, the passenger bill of rights states that I'm entitled to a noise-free ride,” she stated, pointing at the sign bolted to the back of the driver's Naugahyde seat.

Phoebe shrugged. She closed her eyes and leaned back her head. “Whatever. Wake me up when it's time to get out,” she murmured.

“I will.” Heather swallowed, staring at her older sister's ashen face. She couldn't help it.
After a couple of weeks in the hospital Phoebe still had the aura of a concentration camp prisoner.
The anorexia had taken a major, major physical toll. Despite the electrolyte IV drips, the protein shakes,
and the vitamins, Phoebe's hair was still unnaturally thin and stringy, and her skin looked too big for her bones.

But she's making progress,
Heather reminded herself. Yes. The doctors had finally determined that Phoebe was strong enough to transfer from the hospital to some kind of glorified halfway house in Chelsea, where a team of shrinks would try to figure out why Phoebe had become so obsessed with weight the minute she got to college.

“Don't you want to look out the window?” Heather asked, uncomfortable with the silence. “There are some seriously hot guys roaming the streets this afternoon. And I think I just had a John Stamos sighting.”

Phoebe's eyes opened, and she smiled again. “No, thanks.” She drew in her breath, hesitating. “Hey, thanks for coming with me, Heather. I don't think I could have dealt with Mom—”

“It's no problem,” Heather interrupted awkwardly. She didn't want to get into any deep family talks right now. This was stressful enough. Besides, Heather knew exactly what Phoebe was talking about: their mom had a tendency to be overly cheery in tense situations. It was the kind of thing that made a person commit involuntary manslaughter.

Without warning, the cab careened to the other side of the road, narrowly missing a double-decker bus filled with badly dressed tourists. Heather
flinched, but the sudden maneuver got her attention. They were almost there.
Girl survives eating disorder only to get killed in bloody traffic accident,
she thought angrily.

“Right side or left side?” the cabdriver yelled.

“Right side, about two-thirds up the block,” Heather told him.

“I think I'm going to throw up,” Phoebe commented.

“With or without sticking your finger down your throat?” Heather joked.
Oops,
she thought. Maybe that was a little too harsh. Whatever. She was the anti-Mom. No one had ever accused
her
of being overly cheerful.

“That's funny.” Phoebe groaned. She sounded relatively calm, but Heather could see her sister's eyes grow wider as they neared the halfway house. Not that Heather could blame her for being apprehensive. Up until this point Phoebe's condition had been more or less a private matter. Now she was going to have to spill her guts (so to speak) with a group of strangers. Heather shuddered at the thought. She would never allow herself to get into a situation like this.
She would never reveal her dark, dirty secrets
—
so that they could be dissected, analyzed, and debated.
Even her closest girlfriends had no idea what Heather's life was
really
like. And that was exactly how she wanted it.

“This is it!” Heather yelled, spotting the address 1513 on an elegant brownstone.

He slammed on the brakes. The cab lurched to a stop. Heather's head nearly slammed into the partition. The meter read $9.40. Heather pulled out a crumpled ten-dollar bill and handed it to him. Sixty cents was
more
than enough tip for this jerk.

As Phoebe got out of the passenger side of the taxi, Heather grabbed her sister's duffel bag and slid out of her own side. She had barely shut the door before the driver screeched away.

Heather's eyes wandered up the front steps. There was no sign on the halfway house. It looked like any other Chelsea brownstone.

Phoebe groaned again. “I don't get why I have to stay here. I want to go home. Or back to school.”

Heather glowered at her. “You have to stay here because left on your own, you'll eat half a carrot and call it breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Remember?”

Before Phoebe could respond, the front door opened. A plain-looking woman stepped outside. Her gaze instantly zeroed in on Phoebe. “You must be Phoebe Gannis,” she called. “Welcome.”

Heather gently took Phoebe's arm with her free hand and helped her up the steps into the warm and softly lit front hall. Maybe this place was a bummer, but at least it was a welcome relief from the cold, harsh hospital. Instantly it felt like a real
home
—clean
and cozy and furnished with antique rugs. Heather allowed herself a sigh of relief.

“I'm Mariah,” the woman said, closing the door behind them.

“Heather Gannis. Phoebe's younger sister,” Heather replied. She shook Mariah's hand.
She couldn't help but notice that the woman had the kind of all-knowing, unflappable attitude that Heather automatically associated with psychiatrists.
It was kind of annoying. Phoebe hadn't even stepped in the door, and she was already under the microscope.

Mariah glanced at the bag in Heather's left hand. “Phoebe can carry her own luggage, Heather,” she announced. “Part of the purpose of her stay here is to gain personal independence.”

“Fine with me,” Phoebe snapped.

She grabbed the bag from Heather. Her arm was so skinny that it looked like the weight of the duffel might make it snap off. Mariah forced a strained smile.

Great start, guys,
Heather thought grimly.

She followed Mariah and Phoebe down the hall to the staircase, trying to ignore how miserable and uncomfortable she felt. Better to focus on the house itself. She had received strict instructions from her mom to inspect the place. And she had to admit, it was gorgeous. High ceilings, hardwood floors, fresh
flowers.
It looked more like the home of a New York socialite than a holding bin for troubled girls.
She could even smell something delicious . . . something like homemade pasta sauce simmering. At the very least, it didn't look like Phoebe was going to be bundled into a straitjacket and hustled off to a padded cell anytime soon.

Mariah paused at the bottom of the staircase and glanced at her watch. “Phoebe, I'll take you to your room to get settled. Then we'll meet up with the rest of the girls for group therapy in about half an hour. You won't meet with the nutritionist until tomorrow.”

“Sounds like a packed schedule,” Heather joked.

Mariah shrugged. Her smile faded. “We've got a nice balance of planned activities and free time. Each girl has time to paint or write in her journal or bake bread ...or do whatever else she chooses.”

Heather raised her eyebrows. Nice.
Very
nice. It sounded more or less like a spa for unnaturally thin people. She imagined Phoebe lounging on the sofa in the middle of the afternoon, leisurely sketching a bowl of fruit. It was almost funny.
Too bad Mom and Dad can't afford to send both of us here,
she thought. Aside from the psychobabble, Heather would have loved to hole up for a while and forget about the rest of her life.

 

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Time:
3:57 A.M.

Re:
While you were sleeping

Gaia,

Did you know that you have a tendency to snore? It's not one of those chain-saw snores. Just a light, pleasant buzzing as you breathe. I know this because I'm listening. And I'm looking at you. In case you didn't know, you're beautiful when you're asleep. So beautiful that it was imperative I
tell
you.
Right now.
But I figured you might get cranky if I woke you up. I thought it would be best to log on and send an e-mail rather than risk your wrath by waking you up. Then again, if I woke you up, maybe we could . . . never mind. Isn't it illegal to transmit pornography via the Internet?