Killer Within (2 page)

Chapter
Th
r
ee

THAT NIGHT VICTOR, MY STEPDAD,
makes lasagna for dinner. After Mom’s death he’s gone way above in the parent department. He’s home by six, and family dinner is every night at seven.

Dinner we’re
all
expected to be at. Dinner everyone seems to need but me.

“Dr. Depof suggested I make a new friend,” Justin, my younger brother, is saying. “And so I said hi to Christopher today and I’ve never done that before.”

“How did that make you feel?” Victor parrots Dr. Depof, our family grief counselor.

“It made me feel really good about myself.”

It makes me feel like I want to stab myself in the eye.

Victor turns to Daisy. “How’d you do on your history exam?”

She brightens. “A lot better than I thought.”

“Good, Daisy!” he verbally applauds.

They all smile at each other, and I swallow the overwhelming desire to scream.

Now is the point in dinner where everyone gets contemplative and silent as they eat lasagna and pretend they’re
healing
.

Ugh.

But first Victor turns to me, the rock. “Lane, all good today? Anything to report?”

“Fine,” I reply as he expects.

“You going out again tonight?” he asks.

“Yes.” I’m going after Jacks again. And this time I
will
get him.

“Maybe you should try staying in. . . .”

I look him in the eyes, and way in their depths I catch a glimpse of the stepdad he used to be before all this went down. Strong. Kind. Loving. Solid. Does this whole
healing
thing wear him out as much as it does me? Is he tired of being selfless, forcing optimism, and hiding his real grief for our sake?

“Okay,” I reluctantly agree. “I’ll stay in.”

I swear I hear a sigh of relief. That, coupled with Daisy’s and Justin’s dual smiles, gives me a pang of guilt for being gone so much.

I volunteer to do dishes, as I often do. I have a theory that the more steadfast I am around the house—the more chores I do—the more freedom I receive. So far it’s a theory that works.

Victor goes into what used to be my mom’s office, and my brother and sister disappear upstairs. I turn on the news and run a sink of soapy water.

“The Masked Savior has gone too far,” a reporter is saying.

I perk up. The Masked Savior is what the news stupidly dubbed me back when I completed my first vigilante act—the Weasel, the rapist.

They flash a website up on the screen. I look at the Masked Savior URL. What the hell? I have my own site?

“Alleged drug dealer John Jacks Jones was found beaten to near death in an alley off MLK. He was—”

Wait a minute.
What?

That’s the same alley I’d been in last night when I swore someone was following me. But he was fine when I left, when I couldn’t go through with things.

The reporter goes on to describe the messy bludgeoning details. Tasered first. Zip-tied. Beaten with a baseball bat. Left in the alley. Found by some homeless guy.

I would never have done it that way.

“Witnesses said they saw a person dressed in all black and wearing a mask. . . .” The reporter goes on to detail how Jacks was allegedly a member of a local gang.

Allege. Alleged. Allegedly.
I hate all forms of that word. That’s a cover-your-ass word. They flash a picture of Jacks on to the screen, and I think of last night and how I froze up.

The reporter transitions to another story, and I dry my hands and go get my laptop. I bring up my very own URL and holy damn, sure enough, the Masked Savior has a site.

And apparently quite a following. Not only are there details on the acts I actually did before Mom—the rapist, the drunk driver, the animal abuser, the human trafficker—but there are several more I’m getting credit for that I didn’t do. Like Jacks.

This isn’t good. This
so
isn’t good.

I click into the forum and read some of the posts.

[j_d_l] The M. Savior should’ve overdosed JJJ like he did those kids.

[KellyKat] What’s up with shaving that girl’s head?

[HellsBells] Hey, homies, I’m new. What up?

I continue reading through the multitude of comments as everyone discusses the various vigilante acts. People like what I’m doing enough to have dedicated a whole site to me. While that makes me feel honored and justified, it also concerns me. I don’t want or need a fan club. I can’t afford to have people doing stuff “in my name.”

Anonymity is essential. It’s what I need. What I want. The time and space to be me.

The time and space to be me . . .

My gaze trails back to the comment about Jacks. I need to figure out who did this to him—who impersonated me,
copycatted
me, and beat him to near death. He has a partner, Aisha. Was
she
the one I felt watching? Did something go wrong between them and did they have a fight?

I plug my flash drive in and bring up Aisha’s picture and the information I already have on her. When I first saw her in Penn’s court, she was very pretty with her dark ponytail and perfect makeup. I remember thinking how she looked more like a model than a drug dealer.

Then again, I don’t look like who I am either.

I zoom in on her picture and her dark brown eyes, and I study them. Sure she’s smiling, but there’s something just not there. The smile is on her lips, but definitely not in her eyes. Those eyes . . . there’s something empty in them.

Victor comes back out of the office and I glance up.

“I’m going to be clearing out Mom’s locker at work,” he tells me. “I’ll bring her personal things home so you and Daisy can go through them. See if there’s anything you want.”

I nod, though my brain immediately starts spinning. A locker at work. Personal things. Surely, Mom wouldn’t have kept anything questionable at the FBI, would she?

Chapter
Four

“ZACH!” I CALL OUT THE
next day in the school parking lot.

He turns around, and I leave Daisy by the Jeep.

He zips his jacket against the cold as he watches me approach. “What’s up?”

“I have a favor.”

“This is new.”

True. Reggie’s the only one I ever ask favors of. “Mind taking Daisy out?”

Zach just looks at me.

“I mean, as a friend. That’s all. She hasn’t gone out since, well, everything, and it would be good for her to be with some friends again.”
It would be good for her to not be trailing me.

“Oh. Well, I suppose. But wouldn’t her
real
friends be better at this?”

I glance around the student parking lot at the more-than-inquisitive gazes we’re getting. The gossip surrounding all of us has been ridiculous. “Yes, but she doesn’t want to be with them. She doesn’t feel . . . safe.”

“And she’ll feel safe with me?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

He glances over my shoulder to where Daisy is standing and looking at us. “All right. Tell her movie tonight. I’ll pick her up at six.”

I haven’t touched him in months, so when I reach out and grasp his arm, it takes us both by surprise. So much surprise I lose what I want to say.

His dark eyes hold steady to mine as he waits. But when I don’t say anything, he quietly prompts, “Lane?”

I blink and let go and take a step back.
Get ahold of yourself, Lane.
“Thanks, Zach. This means a lot to me. You taking Daisy out,” I clarify.

He nods, and I ignore the urge to touch him again as I turn and walk back to Daisy. But as I walk, I have the distinct sensation he’s still standing there, watching
over
me. Warmth settles through me at just the thought.
Over
me. That comforts me more than it should. And confuses me. I’ve never needed anybody watching over me.

To my surprise, Daisy doesn’t fight it when I get back into the Jeep.

“Zach.”

“Yep,” I say as I crank the engine and heater.

“What about Dad and dinner?”

“He’ll be fine.” Actually, he’ll probably be relieved. He could use a break. “Zach said he’d pick you up tonight at six.” At 6:01 I’ll be out the door and heading to Aisha. She and I are going to have a little talk.

We get Justin, head home, and do the usual snack/homework thing. At five minutes before six Zach rings our doorbell.

Justin answers. “Hi!”

Zach fist-bumps him. “Hey, little man. Daisy ready?”

“Daisy,” Justin calls upstairs as Zach steps into our house.

The last time he was here, we were alone and having sex. Seems like an eternity ago now.

He turns and catches sight of me on my laptop at the dining room table. “Hey, you.”

The warmth from earlier creeps back in, and my lips automatically curl up in response. I do love how he greets me. “Hey.”

Daisy comes down the stairs dressed in jeans, a sweater, and boots. She’s let her blond hair go naturally wavy and wears just a bit of makeup. I like the new Daisy. Not fake anymore. It’s perplexing to me how tragedy changes people. She’s becoming the sister I always wished I had. Minus the two peas thing.

I, however, have turned into an unfocused mess. But, hopefully, that will change tonight. With Aisha.

“You look nice,” I honestly tell her.

She grins—“Thanks”—and turns to Zach. “Ready?”

“I was thinking Justin might want to come too?” Zach suggests.

Justin gives an excited little hop. “Really?”

Daisy takes one look at him and immediately softens. “Sure. Go ask Dad.”

Wow, my sister really has changed.

Justin bolts into the office and seconds later comes back out. “He said yes!” He grabs his coat and they’re all out the door. I don’t get one last look from Zach and find myself disappointed with this.

I duck my head in the office. “Did you bring that stuff home of Mom’s?”

“No, not yet.” He glances up from his file. “Hey, with your brother and sister both gone, mind if we just fend for ourselves tonight?”

I smile. I knew he needed a break. “No problem. Can I do my usual coffee shop thing?”

“Sure, but why didn’t you go with Zach too?”

It’s not like him to question me, and it takes me off guard. “Big paper due tomorrow.”

He nods. “All right.”

“I’ll be back by curfew,” I tell him.

By six fifteen I’m in my Jeep and heading to Aisha’s apartment in Alexandria. Her community is three-story, brick, and clean.

There are a lot of kids out in the common area playing, laughing, and I wonder if she has sold to any of them. Has approached any of them.

A couple walks by, pushing a baby stroller and shooting me a smile.

An older gentleman comes out of his apartment to check the mail.

Someone on the first floor opens a window, and I catch the faint sound of a kitchen smoke alarm beeping.

Seems like such a family-friendly complex for a drug dealer to live in.

Slowly I pull past the landing that leads to her second-story apartment, and Aisha walks right down the stairs. Perfect timing. She’s dressed in all black and doesn’t look up as she climbs into a dark car, backs up, and drives right past me out of the complex.

I do a U-turn and begin following at a safe distance.

She doesn’t go far, pulling into a Starbucks. I park farther down the block and watch as she jumps out. Her dark hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, like it was in Penn’s court, and she wears tiny black-framed glasses.

Carrying an iPad, she pays a meter and goes inside the café.

If she did see me in the alley with Jacks, she wouldn’t recognize me. I had my full-face mask on. So I don’t worry as I cut my engine, wrap a scarf around my neck, and “talk” into my cell phone as I walk toward the Starbucks. To any onlooker I’m just another teen out for a caffeine fix and certainly not following someone.

Aisha’s over in the corner, nibbling on a pastry and sliding her finger over her iPad. I take my place in line, and when it’s my turn, I get my usual. Grande dark roast with room for milk.

At the cream stand I top it off with milk and, blowing on it, wander over to the magazine rack. I choose one with Kate Middleton on the front and pick a spot far enough away from Aisha but from which I can watch her.

I open my magazine and pretend to browse, all the while watching her study her iPad. I’ve already seen her in action selling to kids, but after Jacks being beaten, I want more of a sense of her and if she’s capable of that type of violence. I take in her dark jeans and hoodie again. She’s not as tall as me, but add a mask and she could easily be mistaken for the Masked Savior.

From my research I know she’s younger than Jacks. Only nineteen. She got kicked out of her home and has been living with a friend for a few months. As nonthreatening as she looks
with her glasses and ponytail, she’s actually ideal for introducing young kids to drugs.

I take a final sip of coffee, close my magazine, glance one last time in her direction, and see her staring right at me.

I pause. There’s no way she knows who I am.

She doesn’t smile, just stares at me, and it sends a very distinct shiver of awareness across my neck. She’s malicious. Of this I’m sure. If there’s one thing I’ve developed, it’s an intuition when it comes to evil, and Aisha just officially put mine on full alert.

Yes, she’s capable of impersonating me and beating up Jacks. I’m sure of it.

Chapter
Five

MOM GIVES ME A TENDERIZING
mallet.
“I want you to beat that chicken into submission,” she jokes.

I tentatively start hammering it.

“Harder,” she encourages.

I do.

“Harder,” she reassures in a voice turned raspy and deep.

And I do.

Afterward she pats me on my shoulder. “Good girl. We’ll try that again sometime.”

I push the unwanted memory away and concentrate on prepping the coffeepot. I used to make French press all the time, but haven’t in months. That had been mine and Mom’s thing.

Grabbing the remote, I flip on the morning news. At the bottom is:

MASKED SAVIOR TARGETS PROSTITUTE

What?

Apparently last night “I” tasered, zip-tied, and beat up a prostitute. A prostitute? Give me a break. I wouldn’t do that.

They found her near death in a Dumpster around midnight with a note left by the Masked Savior.

I don’t leave notes.

Well, not normally. I did leave a note with Marco, the animal abuser, but that was different. I had to let people know my reasoning behind his torture.

But this? Why would “I” target a prostitute? Other than making decisions I personally wouldn’t make, I have no beef with hookers.

MASKED SAVIOR TARGETS PROSTITUTE

I clench my jaw. As if my life isn’t complicated enough, this news sucks so much frustrating ass.

Aisha. I get that she would’ve done Jacks in some sort of drug-deal partnership gone bad, but why would she attack this prostitute? Unless the prostitute was one of their clients,
though I thought they targeted only kids. I followed Aisha to Starbucks and then left. She could’ve done this prostitute afterward.

I grab my laptop and bring the report up. Quickly I scan it. The prostitute was only fifteen.
Jesus
. That age makes sense with Aisha, though. I keep scanning. They do suspect drug play. She was found in Georgetown. I followed Aisha in Alexandria, so she could’ve easily gone from the coffee shop to Georgetown.

If Aisha impersonated me and did Jacks and now this prostitute, then she could very well be on the Masked Savior website and a member of my following. I click over to “my” site and scroll new comments.

[JellyJam] 15? Come on!

[Guapo0346] I don’t get it. Why not just kill the prostitute?

[TurtleDove] Do you think the M.S. sleeps in a cape?

I scroll through the other comments and nothing jumps out at me. Of course if Aisha were on this site, her username wouldn’t be Aisha.

First Jacks and now this new bludgeoning. With the news recently mentioning the URL, I’m sure site traffic has picked up.

My brother and sister come downstairs, ready to go. School is the last thing I want to do right now. All I can focus on is tonight and seeing Aisha again.

It’s Daisy’s turn to do the dishes, and this time I don’t volunteer. Instead I grab my keys and am out the door.

When I’m a few blocks away from our home, I notice headlights behind me. I take a few turns just to see, and sure enough, the headlights keep pace. It’s a dark car. And although I can’t make out the gender of the person, through the mix of lights and shadows I can tell there’s only one individual in the car.

I turn left onto Kirby. The car follows.

About a mile down, I hang a right on Westmoreland. The car does as well.
What the hell?

Right on Haycock. So does the car.

I gun my engine, race right through a yellow light, and stare in my rearview mirror. The car stops.

I cut my lights, pull over into a condo community, and park behind a tree. I watch the road, waiting, waiting for the car, but don’t see it.

There’s no way I’m being paranoid. That car
was
following me. I pull out and backtrack, looking now for the car, but don’t see anything.

Dark car.
Aisha drives a dark one.

I glance at my watch: 8:50. If I head straight to her apartment, I wonder if I’ll actually find her there.

My phone dings. It’s Victor.
WHERE ARE YOU?

Shit. I forgot to tell him I was leaving.
SORRY,
I quickly type back.
RAN TO CVS. NEED ANYTHING?

NO. COMING HOME SOON?

I want to head over to Aisha’s apartment, but it’s obvious Victor is getting annoyed with my nightly outings.
YES,
I type back.

When I go away to college, this won’t be an issue. But for now I need to go home and make a family appearance.

When I walk inside, Victor is in the living room watching CNN.

He swerves his eyes over to me, then down to my empty hands. “Thought you went to CVS?”

Damn.
Before
Mom I wouldn’t have made this mistake. “It’s in the car. Just some supplies I need for school.”

Justin comes racing down the stairs. “Lane! You’re home.”

Daisy steps out of the laundry room and smiles. “Hi.”

Have I really been this absent from my family? I look at each of them as guilt nestles its annoying little self inside me. Yes, I have been absent. I always have. Before Mom it never seemed an issue, though.

I head over and take a seat on the couch with Victor. I want to ask him again if he brought home Mom’s personal stuff from the office but don’t want to seem too eager. I’ll give it another couple of days, and then I’ll ask him.

Justin plops down beside me, and we all silently watch
the headlines. I think we must be the only household with twenty-four/seven news playing. With both my parents in the FBI, it sort of goes with the territory.

A few minutes in, Daisy brings a basket of laundry over and starts folding it.

One look and anyone would peg us as normal.

Victor flips the channel to a local one, and I tune in to what a commentator is saying. “Another child has overdosed. Something needs to be done. This one was only ten. Find who’s giving these kids drugs and put them in jail. Is it really that hard?”

Daisy sighs. “That’s horrible. Giving drugs to a kid. Ten years old? God!”

I look over to my brother. He’ll be ten in a couple of years.

The mother of the child comes on the TV, crying, pleading with anyone who might know who gave her child drugs.

I’ll never understand how people deal with death. The crying. I haven’t shed a tear since I killed my mother. I suppose I’m more of a weep-on-the-inside type of griever. Then again, I’m not really grieving. My mother deserved to die.

Who am I kidding? I
am
grieving. I miss the mother I thought she was. And I’m confused and angry and frustrated at how she tricked me, my brother, my sister, my stepdad. How she tricked all of us into thinking she was this great mom.

Yeah, I’m really effing pissed about that.

Something loosens inside me. Like a dawning realization. Why has it taken me three months to realize this? To realize I’m pissed at her for betraying all of us.

Victor looks down at my brother. “Justin, you know never to take things from strangers, right? Never.”

Justin nods. “Yeah, Dad.”

“Please,” the mother continues on-screen, “if anyone knows anything . . .”

I have no idea if Aisha is responsible for this boy, but I do know she’s a link that needs to be severed.

“Lane, you got a card in the mail,” Victor tells me. “It’s on the dining room table.”

I walk over to see a yellow Hallmark envelope. It’s not my birthday, so I know it’s another one of those ridiculous “Sorry for your loss” cards. I don’t want to open it, but because my family is in the same room, I pull the thick yellow card out, ignore the dove embossed on the front, and open it.

It says simply:

Your mom was loved by many.

No signature. No return address. But the postmark reads Richmond.

“Who’s it from?” Victor asks.

“Just someone from school,” I automatically lie. “They moved to Richmond,” I follow up, in case he looked at the envelope.

I don’t know anyone who lives in Richmond. This has got to be someone who knew my mom. But why send this to just me? Why not send it to the whole family?