Killer (4 page)

“Oh,” Ed said, nodding. “Of course. The old escape-from-Alcatraz trick. Got it.”

But Gaia didn't seem to catch the sarcasm in his voice. Man. This was even worse than it looked. She was seriously out of it.

The elevator lurched to a stop. The doors opened. They had reached Ed's floor. Maybe it was time to drop the bomb.

Ed hesitated in the hall as Gaia walked to his door.

“So are you going to let me in?” she asked, glancing back over her shoulder. Another drop of blood splattered on the floor.

“Uh . . . yeah,” he murmured. “There's something I should tell you, though.”

She sighed. “What's that?”

He rolled up beside her and put his hand on the doorknob. For a moment his gaze skittered across Gaia's perfect features. He couldn't help but wonder what her reaction would be. Disappointment? Or—hope against hope—maybe even a little bit of jealousy?

“Well?” she demanded.

Ed pushed open the door, bracing himself for the storm that was about to erupt. “Heather's here,” he said.

 

GAIA SUDDENLY FOUND HERSELF
wishing Ella's bullet hadn't missed its mark. Even death seemed like a better alternative than being holed up in Ed's tiny East Village apartment with
her
.

The Burning

Ed slammed the door shut behind them. Gaia found herself staring straight into Miss Heather Gannis's genetically perfect features: those amber-flecked eyes, that long brown hair. This was perfect. Just perfect.

Silence enveloped the room.
It seemed to fill every corner, like a poisonous fog—suffocating them.
Gaia continued to meet Heather's steely gaze. Neither of them blinked. Neither looked away. Gaia had to hand it to the girl: For all her bitchiness and self-absorption, Heather Gannis was tough. No wonder boys flocked to her.

“That's not your sister,” Heather finally stated.

Gaia frowned. What the hell was that supposed to mean? She turned on her heels. Enough was enough. Clearly she was raining on a parade she wanted no part of. “You know what?” she muttered. “I think a park bench will be just fine.” She reached for the door.

“Wait a second.” Ed blocked her way, tugging at the sleeve of her battered army coat. “You can't go. You're bleeding....We've got some bandages.”

She rolled her eyes. “Ed, I'll be fine—”

“Shut up, Gaia,” he snapped.

Whoa.
She almost flinched. She froze, her eyes narrowing. Ed actually looked pissed. Then again, she supposed he had a
right
to be pissed. She'd barged in on him without warning, bleeding all over his apartment building—and now she was stomping away. Maybe she should just keep her mouth shut. Maybe she should just let him take care of her. It was the least she could do. Her gaze flashed to Heather.

Heather's eyes turned to ice. She sniffed, shook her head, then stormed into the living room.

“Come on,” Ed mumbled.

Wordlessly Gaia allowed him to lead her into the bathroom. He turned on the faucet, then began rifling through the cabinets. She couldn't help but notice how jittery he was, as if he'd just downed a double espresso. He kept running his hands through his hair, opening the same doors over and over again.

But could she blame him? She'd be jittery, too—if she were in his shoes.

No, you wouldn't,
she reminded herself. Of course not. Gaia Moore didn't
have
jitters. She was a freak.
And that wasprobably a good part of the reason Ed's once-and-future girlfriend, the heinous Heather Gannis, hated her so
much.
Well, that and the fact that Gaia had nearly gotten her killed.

But there wasn't much point in feeling sorry for herself right now, was there?

Finally Ed found what he was looking for: rubbing alcohol and gauze.

“So what happened to you, anyway, Gaia?” Heather's sour voice drifted down the hall. “Did you get run over on your way to the Salvation Army?”

Ed's head whipped around. His eyes were blazing. The dark blue vein at his temple looked like it was about to burst. “Can you two do me a favor?” he asked loudly. “Can you just be quiet—”

“You don't have to worry, Ed,” Heather interrupted. “I'm going to see Phoebe, remember? So you two can have a lovely time here by yourselves.” Her voice oozed with venom. “How does that sound?”

Gaia winced. “He didn't want to let me in,” she found herself saying. There was something insanely perverse about trying to smooth things over between Ed and Heather, but the sight of Ed's tortured face tore at her conscience. “He owes me a favor. It's time to pay up.”

“Whatever,” Heather called back. The front door slammed so hard that the entire apartment seemed to rattle.

Ed shook his head. His jaw was clenched. His lips twitched. Gaia swallowed. She wanted to apologize....
But despite her guilt, she couldn't help feeling annoyed. She just didn't get it. First Sam went berserk over Heather and now Ed.
What wasit about that hideouscreature that made smart, attractive guyscompletely lose their minds?
Did an unhealthy obsession with fashion trigger some override switch in guys' heads? Was it a mindless devotion to the latest trends that kept them from noticing when a girl was a spoiled, self-absorbed snot?

“Hold still,” Ed instructed, grabbing the bottle of alcohol. He tore off the cap in quick, jerky motions. “This might sting.”

Was it Gaia's imagination, or did something in Ed's voice hint that he
wanted
it to sting? She held out her arm, bracing herself for the shock of pain. Maybe now would be a good time to see if Ed was planning on kicking her out when he was done tending to her.

“Where should I put my stuff?” Gaia asked tentatively.

“The spare room would be all right,” he muttered, seizing her wrist.

He didn't look up. He simply splashed the clear liquid from the bottle onto her open wound.

But somehow the burning wasn't all that bad.

 

As
far as I've figured out, there's two kinds of people in this world:

A. Those who know what they want and go after it;

B. Those who muck it up for the rest of us.

Care to guess which one Gaia Moore is?

She's probably talking trash to Ed right now, trying to change his mind about me. It would almost be funny if it weren't so unbelievably pathetic. Does she really believe I can't see what's going on here?

Anyway, I thought she wanted Sam. Fine. If she wants him now, she can have him. I'll let her win this time. She can twist Sam's mind in whatever way she wants.

But Ed—he's not negotiable.

The way Gaia's acting is hardly a surprise. She's always wanted whatever I have. But the way Ed's acting is really pissing me off. Doesn't our past together mean
anything? Ed and I have
history
. Ed and Gaia have . . . what? Five months? Nothing. Zilch. Nada.

Yet for some reason he keeps coming back for more. She's got him on some kind of short leash. And he doesn't even see it.

Whatever. I've got enough to deal with. I really don't need this crap right now.

 

You
want to know what sucks? Being in a wheelchair sucks. Having a girlfriend who is pissed at you sucks. So does having a drunken sister who plans on marrying a guy named Blane. So does the fact that Blane's IQ rivals his shoe size.

But I digress.

What really sucks is this: having two people—people you really care about—hate each other.

Yup. That has to be one of the worst feelings in the world. Right up there with listening to Barry Manilow. It's torture. See, since you care about both of them, you can understand why they each feel the way they do. And also know why they're both wrong. So you're sort of hanging like a battered bridge between the two of them, over this raging river, hoping it doesn't sweep you away and wishing they could see each other the way you see them.

Both sides think you're nuts,
of course. They just see that you're hanging out there alone, looking like an ass.

If I really wanted to, I could sit Heather down and try to convince her that Gaia isn't as evil as she thinks. Or I could tell Gaia about what a great person Heather really is. But there's no point to it. They've already made up their minds about each other. And both are too stubborn to admit that they might be wrong.

So the battle continues, with me hanging out there in the middle—looking like an ass.

. . . Well, one thing was very clear. Her foster mother was a woman who took immense pleasure in inflicting maximum pain.

 

ED PUSHED A CARDBOARD BOX MARKED
Christmas Ornaments under the computer desk to make room on the floor of the spare room.

Heather Defined

“You can put your bag over here for now,” he said. “I'll get some blankets and towels out of the closet before you go to bed.”

“Thanks,” Gaia mumbled.

For a moment he waited for Gaia to say something more—
anything
—to make him feel like he was a friend and not some chump she just used and tossed away like yesterday's
Daily News.
He wasn't asking for much. Just a little small talk.
Did you hear we're supposed to get snow tonight? I could really go for a doughnut right now.
Anything. He didn't even need to hear why she had suddenly decided to run away from home at this particular moment or why she was in such a daze. That could come later.

“Do you want something to eat?” he asked, mostly to fill the painful silence.

She shook her head. “Nah, I'm good.”

“How about a Coke?”

“No, thanks,” Gaia answered. “I'd like to check my e-mail, though.”

Ed nodded at the computer, happy there was finally
something
he could provide for her. “It's yours, anytime you want.”

Without saying a word, Ed watched Gaia plop down unceremoniously at the desk. She tucked a snarled strand of hair behind her ear and stared at the screen in concentrated silence. Ed shook his head.
Already his presence seemed to have been forgotten.
Gaia might be going through some kind of crisis, but she didn't have to be
rude.
He turned to the door. Although he could maneuver his wheelchair throughout the apartment with the precision of an Olympic skier competing in the giant slalom, Ed deliberately ran into the doorway as he backed out. Okay, yes, it was a cheap stunt to get attention. He knew it. But it was worth a shot. He felt like he was about to burst.

Bang.

Gaia's head jerked away from the monitor at the sudden noise.

He suppressed a grin. Desired effect achieved. “I'll be out in the living room if you need anything,” he said.

“Wait.” She stared at him. “Let me ask you something.”

Finally
, he thought. As coolly and casually as he could, he shifted his position to face her. “Shoot.”

“I'm just curious.” She bit her lip. For once in her life, Gaia Moore actually looked unsure of herself. Incredible. “Are things getting really serious between you and ... you know....”

He shrugged. “I guess.”

Gaia didn't say anything. The words hung thickly in the air. That was it, Ed realized.
That marked a turning point. With that response, he had defined Heather. Period.
And so he had also slammed the door on any vague hopes of a romance with Gaia. Not that she ever gave him a second thought, anyway. But still . . . the readiness to admit to a relationship surprised him. He didn't even think he was trying to make Gaia mad.

Well. Maybe just a little.

“Oh,” Gaia said finally. Her voice was toneless. She turned back to the computer.

Ed took his cue to leave.

 

SAM MOON CIRCLED THE TINY,
garbage-strewn cell that was his dorm room one more time. Finally he came back to his computer. The message was still there.

A Serial-Killer Sort of Way

Meet me at La Focaccia. We need to talk.

At first he thought it was
some kind of hallucination brought on by pulling an all-nighter. But it wouldn't go away. It swirled in a jumble around his head.

Sam. Gaia. We. Future.

It was hard enough imagining those four words together in one e-mail, let alone that they could be written by Gaia herself.
How could she suddenly change her mind after she learned the truth about hiswasted, drunken night with Ella?

He could barely even think of Ella's name without cringing. She was so many things: a nightmare, Gaia's ridiculously young foster mother, a delusional stalker. No matter how hard he tried to stay away from her, she just wouldn't take no for an answer. She was a lunatic.

She might also be an attempted murderer.

Sam's stomach tightened into a ball. He didn't have proof, of course. Not directly. But Mike Suarez, one of Sam's suite mates and closest friends, had recently OD'd on heroin. Now he was in a coma, hooked up to life support. A college guy overdosing on drugs wasn't much of a news story to most people, but Sam knew that this one didn't ring true. Mike wasn't a junkie. He was as clean and straight as they came. It just didn't make sense.

Then Ella, as subtle as a freight train, had dropped a hint that she was the one who had
injected Mike with the drug . . . all because Sam hadn't returned her advances. Of course, she didn't phrase it in those words. Oh, no.
She was too smart. In a serial-killer sort of way.
But the message was clear. At least in Sam's mind—