Killer Within (4 page)

Chapter
Eight

THE NEXT MORNING DURING FIRST
block TA, Zach finds me in the library. “Hey, you.”

“Hey.”

“Can we talk?”

In my experience that question rarely prefaces a positive conversation. “Okay.”

He blows out a nervous breath that makes me even more curious as to what he wants to say. “We haven’t really
talked
-talked since everything happened, and I was hoping we could have a little heart-to-heart.”

I give him my full attention.

He pulls the chair out beside me and takes a seat. “It’s not a big secret that I had the world’s biggest crush on you.”

I catch the word “had.” And . . . “crush”? I wouldn’t call what we had a crush. We had sex. That qualifies as more than a crush in my mind, but I continue listening.

“The thing is, I like you. Sometimes I like you too much. And that freaks me out. Especially with our history.”

Is he talking about me beating up his ex-girlfriend, Belinda? Or maybe he’s talking about the fact he was strapped naked to a table, about to be killed, and my mom “rescued” him.

“I keep thinking we can maybe get back to where we were or pick up where we left off or whatever, but it’s not going to work. I’ve discussed this with my therapist, and that’s why I’m here talking to you. I’m choosing honesty over avoidance.”

Everyone seems to have a therapist these days.

“Have you thought about this at all?” he asks.

No, not really.
I don’t reply with this, though, and instead am brutally honest. “Zach, I like you. I trust you. But I don’t want to date you.” I
can’t
date anybody. I have way too much going on inside this bizarre head of mine. “I do, however, want another orgasm.”

His face turns slightly red.

I shrug. “Just being honest.”

He laughs a little. “That right there is why I fell so hard for you from the get-go. However, my services are not for hire.”

I give his joke a smile. “I get that.”

We stare at each other for a few long seconds as his laughter gradually fades away. Something in the air shifts between us, making me wonder what he’s going to say next.

He sighs and looks away. “I don’t want to be friends. I mean, I want to, but I can’t. I’m sorry.” He brings his eyes back to mine. “Please don’t ask me to do you any more favors. I don’t want to be mean to you; I’ll acknowledge you when I see you, but I don’t want to talk anymore. This is something I have to do for me and my recovery. And I’m going to tell Daisy not to call me anymore too.”

Recovery? He hasn’t gone back to drinking, has he? “Zach . . .” Wow, I’m speechless.

He stands. “Maybe someday . . .” He gives his head a quick shake. “No. I’m getting sidetracked,
again
, which is so easy to do with you. Okay, see you around.”

I watch him walk back across the library, and with each step emptiness knocks around inside me.
I don’t want to be friends.
I’m floored. I can’t believe he actually said that.

But . . . I get it. I wish I didn’t, but I do. He knows what he needs to do to heal—to move on. It sucks that it’s staying away from me. But, yeah, I get it.

The question is: What do
I
need?

I need to stop Aisha and this copycat thing. I also need to find out who Marji is.

That night I find my stepdad in the office looking through all the condolence cards I had put away. His sad expression sends a pang through my heart. “You okay?” I quietly ask.

He closes the latest one, the one from that Marji woman. “Yes, fine.” He gives me a fake smile. “Heading out?”

I hesitate. Yes, I want to, but maybe he needs me here.

“Go,” he encourages me, seemingly reading my mind. “Everything’s fine.”

I still hesitate.

“Seriously.” He laughs a little. “Go.”

“Okay . . . but can I borrow your car? My heater’s not working too well.” Plus, Aisha won’t know me in his car.

“Oh, well, let’s make sure we get it checked.”

He gives me his keys, I grab my supplies from my Jeep, and I’m off to Alexandria and Aisha’s apartment. Except all the way there I can only think about Victor’s sad expression. Sometimes I wish I could just tell him how Mom really was so he wouldn’t be so lost without her.

About an hour into sitting, thinking, and waiting, Aisha comes out of her apartment alone, and my pulse spikes with nervous excitement. She’s dressed in all black and has a beanie on.

Here we go, copycat.

She glances around as she makes her way to her car. I let her get a few blocks ahead and slowly begin to follow. With her nondescript car, she’s not easy to trail, and I nearly lose
her a time or two. I’m assured, though, between the traffic and Victor’s car, there’s no way she can know I’m following her. She takes the parkway all the way to where it dumps out near Langley and heads into Falls Church from there. She pulls into a neighborhood with nut-to-butt Cape Cods and parks along the curb.

I go right past her, out for a merry little drive, take a left, and park behind a playground where some middle school kids are playing a late-night game of soccer on the frozen field. I get out my binoculars, and as I focus in on her image, my heart picks up pace. She has no clue I’m watching her, and that one fact alone has my lips curving up in satisfaction.

Tonight’s the night, Aisha.

I watch her as she scopes out the kids. The playground. The soccer game. The surroundings.

I lower my binoculars and study the same scene.

She opens her door and climbs out. She crosses to the playground and sits in the darkness under a tree. A couple of the middle school boys glance her way. What is she up to?

I look around at the surrounding houses. The parents probably think this a great little neighborhood. Their kids can play. They can glance out through their windows and check on them. Call them home from their front doors. Safe.

Nothing is safe. Don’t people understand that?

A few of the boys head home. Now there’s just a couple
left. They seem older. Maybe thirteen or fourteen. They glance Aisha’s way before looking around and then slowly heading over. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but they’re standing in front of her. One has a soccer ball tucked under his arm. The other one holds a dark plastic water bottle.

He hands it to her. She unscrews the top and glances inside, then reaches into her hoodie pocket, pulls out a similar bottle, and hands that one to him.

They’ve got this thing down pat. I’d bet anything there’s money in the first bottle and drugs in the other.

The boy doesn’t look inside, and instead he and his buddy head off.

She remains sitting, watching them walk away. I lower my ski mask and slip from Victor’s car. I slide the tranquilizer gun into my side cargo pocket and, in the darkness, I make my way toward her.

She has no clue I’m here. I can have her tasered and zip-tied in under a minute. For that matter I can shoot her with my tranquilizer gun and be done with her. But then she’d be left for dead, propped against the tree, to be found frozen in the morning.

Plus, what good is that going to do me? I want some answers. I want to know about Jacks and the prostitute and the homeless boy. I want to know why she was following me the other night and why she’s copycatting me.

I continue hovering in the shadows, eyeing her, waiting, enjoying the throbbing in my blood that the anticipation brings. My ears tune in to the stillness of the night. Winter always seems to make everything quieter.

She gets up and makes her way through the empty playground, out the other side, and back toward her car.

I follow.

With one last glance up and down the dark street, I go to raise my Taser at the same second she opens her door, catches sight of my reflection in the glass, and whips around.

Immediately I move, lunging, ramming the heel of my hand into the tip of her nose. Her head snaps back, she slips, falls into her doorjamb, and loses consciousness.

I take in a breath and hold it as I stare down at her unconscious body. What the . . . ?

Goddamnit
.

I give her body a jab with my boot. She’s out. And I have no answers.

With a sigh I do another quick survey of the empty street. I don’t zip-tie her. I don’t want this connected to the Masked Savior.

I pick her up and shove her in her car, and as I do, I catch sight of a baseball bat in her backseat. Jacks, the teen prostitute, the homeless boy—they were all beaten with a bat.

Looks like I was right about Aisha being my copycat.

I search her pockets and find all kinds of drugs. I dig through her glove box and find the same. I don’t bother looking anywhere else. I’m sure she’s got paraphernalia tucked everywhere.

Between the baseball bat, the drugs, and her dark outfit, the cops are going to get her on everything.
Slim justice.
They’ll think they just nabbed the Masked Savior.

I find her phone, punch her one last time in the head to make sure she stays out, and dial 911. I toss the phone on the floorboard and truck it back to Victor’s car. I wait to make sure she doesn’t wake up, and when I hear sirens, I slowly leave the neighborhood.

This was what I needed. Righting a wrong. Defeating evil.

But other than the initial tingling in my blood, there were no pulsing arteries. No throbbing veins. No spiked adrenaline.

If this was what I needed, then how come it doesn’t feel as great as I thought it would?

Chapter
Nine

AISHA IS ALL OVER THE
news the next evening, and as I had hoped, there is heavy speculation she is the Masked Savior.

Good.

I bring up “my” site to see it buzzing.

[Omar_Fire] Give me a break. Aisha’s not the M.S.

[MikeyMike] I agree!

[JaxcyOnyx] Will the real M.S. please stand up?

I sigh. No one on the forum believes Aisha and the Masked Savior are one and the same.

[j_d_l] M.S. should’ve tranq’d her. It’s what Aisha deserved.

I read and reread that line.
Tranq’d her.
I did have my tranquilizer gun out before I slipped it into my pocket. But the
Masked Savior is known for Taser and zip ties, not tranquilizer, because I’ve never used it.

Which means the only way j_d_l could’ve known about the tranquilizer gun is if he had been there. My heart skips a beat and I take in a shallow breath. He was there, watching me.

No.

Did I just waste my time on Aisha? Was she not the one following me, copycatting me?
No!
How did I not sense this other person? How did I not know there was someone hiding in the shadows?

This isn’t good.

That means this person may know who I am. He may have seen me without my mask.

If I hadn’t been so driven, I would’ve felt his presence. This isn’t good at all and proves I have to be more alert. I have to be more on my game. Before Mom, I would’ve been.

Game.
That word floats around in my head as an idea forms.

From an anonymous handle, I instant message j_d_l:
WELCOME TO MY WORLD. ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO PLAY?

“I have some bad news.”

I look up from my laptop and straight into Victor’s eyes. “Oh?”

“Your father’s place, the house you inherited, burned down,” he tells me.

“Oh,” I simply respond, though of course I already know this.

“Cops think it was some neighborhood kids playing around with gas and fire. Anyway, there’s also a buyer. An elderly couple. Once the insurance company signs off, the buyers are going to clear the land and rebuild. Like your mom said, I’ll put the money in your college account.”

I nod. “Thanks.”

“There will be some paperwork for you to sign since the house is in your name.”

“Okay.” Once that paperwork is signed, I’ll officially be free of 4 Buchold Place. The most evil place I know.

“Are you going to that grief group I told you about?” he asks.

“Is that tonight?”

He gives me a patient look. “Yes.”

Inside I sigh, but being the good daughter I pretend to be, I close everything down and grab my keys. “On my way,” I tell him, when all I really want to do is wait for j_d_l’s response.

I arrive to grief group a little late. There are twelve people in all, and as they introduce themselves, I discover they range in age from fifteen up to thirty. This one is considered the “young” group, and then there’s a “mature” group that meets at a different time.

Across the circle from me sits a blond-haired guy I recog
nize. We went to middle school together, I think. He was in eighth grade when I was in seventh, which would make him a freshman in college now. That is, if he’s in college.

He introduces himself. “My name is Tommy and I’ve been coming on and off for a while now. My sister died several months ago, and I’m just trying to find my way back.”

“Welcome, Tommy,” the counselor greets him.

“Welcome, Tommy,” a few of the others parrot.

I don’t say anything, but I do look at both of his arms covered in tats. To each their own, but I’ve never understood the concept of tattoos and piercings.

The introductions continue, and I only slightly listen as I think back to the news report on Aisha. She is in jail, being held without bond. They found enough drugs on her and in her car to put her away for a very long time. Plus with the bat and the way she was dressed, she’s indeed the number one Masked Savior suspect.

At least she’s locked up, and the streets are somewhat safer now—from drugs—but not from whoever was out there watching me.

“Hello?” the counselor prompts.

I blink and sit up, suddenly realizing everyone is staring at me. “Sorry.”

The counselor raises his brows. “Would you like to introduce yourself?”

I clear my throat. “Lane. Seventeen. Mom’s dead.”

Everyone in the circle exchanges confused glances, and the grief counselor smiles warmly. “Welcome, Lane.”

I don’t smile back. “Thanks.”

The group continues for an hour, talking about, hell, I don’t know what. I don’t bother listening. I don’t need this crap to heal. What I need is to get out and figure out how this j_d_l guy factors into everything. If Aisha
wasn’t
the one following me,
wasn’t
the one copycatting me, then it’s got to be this j_d_l person. Though I won’t know for sure if Aisha is blameless unless another victim pops up.

Lastly there is Marji, this mysterious person from Richmond.

I think through all the things that need my focus, paying no attention to the meeting. Finally, the hour is up and I head out. As I’m unlocking my Jeep, headlights flip on down the road and a car slowly comes toward me.

I edge closer to my Jeep, giving the car room on the narrow street, and it slows to an almost crawl when it gets nearer. I glance over my shoulder, squinting against the headlights, and damn me, it’s a dark car. Individual occupant. Same as before.

A streetlight catches the driver in a brief illumination. A woman. Black hair. But just as quickly as the light flashes on her face, it’s gone, and she guns the engine and zips by. I whip
around, try to read her tag, but can’t make it out. It’s a BMW, though.

I jump in my Jeep to follow, make it to the end of the street, hang a right, and can’t find her. My gaze bounces over the taillights of the cars in front of me, but I don’t see hers. I keep driving, searching, but don’t see her BMW anywhere.

Are you j_d_l?

I didn’t just imagine that, right? Dark car. Single occupant. But . . . maybe she was going slow so she wouldn’t hit me. There’re a lot of dark cars out there. There’s nothing to say that’s the same one as before. No, she
was
looking at me. In that brief flash of streetlight, she was looking at me. Or at least I thought she was.

I sigh. It’s annoying doubting myself.

Dark blue BMW. I’ll catalog that for now. If I see her again, I’ll know for sure.

I drive on home to find Victor in the kitchen seemingly anticipating my return.

“How’d it go?” he asks before I close the door.

“You waiting on me?”

He nods. “And? Did you like it?”

“No. I doubt I’m going to go back.”

His hopeful expression slowly fades, and in its place settles one of annoyance. “Everyone around here is trying but you. So you know what? Fine. Do whatever you want to do, Lane.”
With that he grabs his glass of wine, walks into the office, and shuts the door.

I don’t move, I’m so in shock. I can’t recall him ever taking that agitated tone with me before. Ever. He’s really pissed.

Everyone around here is trying but you.

That’s not true. We all put out effort in our own way. It’s just . . . they wouldn’t understand
my
way. And I’ve been here for my brother and my sister. Hell, Daisy’s been sleeping in my room for the past three months. Why didn’t Victor give me credit for that?

Yes, I’ve been here for Daisy and Justin, but . . . I haven’t really been here for my stepdad. No one has. If me going to this group helps him deal with all of this, then I need to go.

I walk to the office and knock on the door.

“Come in,” he curtly says.

I open the door just enough to stick my head through. “I’m sorry. I really am. I was being selfish. I’ll keep going back.”

He spares me a very brief look. “Good.”

I give it a couple more seconds, but neither of us says anything else, and so I close his door. Yes, Victor’s pissed. But I’ll go, and I’ll participate, and I’ll try to make him happy.