Killer Within

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  Chapter One

  I DUCK IN THE SHADOWS beside the Dumpster and wait. Beneath my mask I tune every sense to the night surrounding me.

  Down the alley two cats scuffle.

  Four stories up a woman and a man argue.

  All around me snowflakes fall and wet the cement.

  A rat sidles out from beneath the Dumpster, and I immediately move. I don’t do rats.

  I race to the end of the alley and spin around. My gaze flicks from shadow to shadow, but I don’t see movement.

  Maybe it’s all in my head—this person I think is following me.

  It’s been three months since I killed the Decapitator.

  It’s been three months of nightly outings. Looking. ­Waiting. Hunting. Trying to satisfy the urges that don’t seem to be satiable. Even I know I’m wasting my talents.

  Talents . . .

  With my position in the FBI and your innate talents . . . We’ll be great. We’ll go down in history as the most infamous serial killers never caught.

  I shake my mom’s annoying voice from my head. I just want her to stay the hell out of my thoughts. But she won’t. She pops in constantly. Frustratingly so. I wish I could reach inside my head, grab that section of my brain, and yank it out.

  But I do what I always do. Bury it and refocus.

  Four weeks ago I caught the freshman who graffitied the football field. I tied him up and left him on the fifty-yard line for the coaches to find.

  Three weeks ago I shaved the captain of the cheerleaders’ head. She’d “jokingly” done the same to a freshman girl who had passed out at a party.

  Two weeks ago I caught a twelve-year-old girl stealing a Snickers bar from the 7-Eleven down the street. I made her go and confess.

  And last week I kicked this kid’s ass for swatting his dog with a rolled-up magazine. I do not put up with animal abusers. They rank pretty high on my hit list.

  Yet all these things are beneath me. They’re juvenile. But I just don’t know what else to do. I need to feel alive again. I need adrenaline surging through my veins. But the last time I did was three months ago in the kill room with Zach and the Decapitator.

  Down the alley a door opens, and I flatten myself along the wet brick wall. This is it. This is what I’ve been waiting for. Tonight will make up for the past frustrating months.

  John Jacks Jones. His parents had a strange sense of humor when they named him. Age twenty-one. Caucasian. Drug dealer. I was first introduced to him and his partner, Aisha Olive, in Judge Penn’s court—where I like to spend my spare time. John Jacks Jones, or Jacks as everyone calls him, is the worst kind of drug dealer. He and Aisha target the kids.

  One week ago an eleven-year-old overdosed on pills, and Aisha and Jacks landed in Penn’s court. They were released for lack of evidence, and that’s when I first started trailing them. In the last five days I’ve witnessed them selling to three different kids. Yes, Jacks is definitely worthy of my focus. As is Aisha.

  He coughs and spits, then lights up a cigarette. His phone rings and he answers it. “Yeah?”

  As he listens, I take my Taser from my cargo pocket. Slowly I make my way down the alley and through the snow toward him. I size him up. Five foot ten. One hundred seventy-five pounds. Dark hair and goatee. Jeans. Jacket. Looks ordinary enough. I know from the past week of following him that he carries a gun.

  “And what’d he say?” Pause. “Fuck him, man. If I say it’s a grand, then it’s a grand.”

  Ever since my mom dropped the f-bomb in the kill room, I’ve decided I don’t care for the word.

  As he listens to whoever’s on the other end, I close the last few feet between us.

  I lift my Taser . . . and pause.

  My finger hovers over the trigger as I stare at the back of his head.

  Pull the trigger!

  “All right, later tonight, then.” Jacks clicks off, flicks his cigarette into the snow, and walks back through the door he came out of.

  I stand for a moment, finger still hovering over the trigger, staring at the closed door.

  What the hell? Months ago I would’ve already had him tasered, zip-tied, and ready for whatever I had in store for him. I’m way off my game. And I have no clue why.

  I turn the Taser around and study the barbs. Shoot yourself, Lane. Maybe that’ll bring you back to life.

  I get home a little before my midnight curfew to find Daisy in my bed. I take a breath and swallow it so I don’t give in to the overwhelming urge to bitch at her.

  My sister yawns. “Hey, where have you been?”

  I give my standard lie. “The coffee shop.”

  She sits up. “I didn’t see you there.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I went to keep you company. Tried calling you too.”

  This isn’t good. “New coffee shop. And I turn my phone off for quiet time.”

  I hope she gets my emphasis.

  “Oh.”

  Apparently she does. Retreating to my walk-in closet, I quickly change into my sleep shirt. It’s been like this since our mom died. Me and Daisy. Two peas. She’s driving me nuts.

  Her sudden connection to me wouldn’t be such a shock if it weren’t the complete opposite of the way things used to be. I find myself wishing more than I should that she’d go back to hating and ignoring me.

  At least I’d get some me time.

  “I’ll go with you sometime if you want the company.”

  From inside my closet I close my eyes. I’ve got to figure this out. Me. Her. Me.

  I flick the closet light off and shuffle back into my room. “Sleeping here tonight?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

  She blinks her blue eyes. “If that’s okay?”

  I pull the covers back and climb in. “Sure.”

  As usual, she’s asleep in five minutes and I lie awake for an hour. I never used to have problems sleeping. But over the past few months it seems me and sleep aren’t getting along too well.

  Daisy’s breathing deepens. I focus on its cadence, thinking of her and Justin. I’m so happy neither of them inherited our mother’s darkness. And that thought causes my mind to drift—as it has been doing lately—to years past and buried memories. . . .

  Mom gives me several Barbie dolls. “If you feel anything, I want you to take it out on them, okay?”

  I nod my eight-year-old head.

  Days later she steps into my room, and I hand her a box full of Barbie body parts that I ripped and chewed off.

  She soothes her hand over my braided hair. “Good girl. I’ll get you more.”

  I am who I am, and she’d been grooming me from the start. I just never realized it until after her death.

  Before. After. I’ve been thinking in those two terms a lot. How I was before she died—focused, together. And how I am after—scattered, lost.

  Before. After.

  After I killed her. The Decapitator. My mother.

  Chapter Two

  THE NEXT MORNING MY FIRST-PERIOD TA job rolls around, and I go straight to Mr. Bealles, our librarian.

  He glances up from the circulation desk. “Hey, Slim.”

  It’s always odd to me when teachers cal
l me by my nickname. “Anything for me to do?”

  He nods his bald head to the left. “Just shelve those books.”

  Quickly I do and then head straight to my usual computer station. As I’m logging on, my best friend, Reggie, texts me. CAN U TALK?

  I dial her number. “What’s up?”

  “You doing okay today?”

  No, but of course I don’t say this. “Yeah, Reg. All good.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  She knows I’m lying.

  “All right,” she says, “but the last few times we’ve talked you’ve been even more short and sweet than usual.”

  Because everyone’s in my business, and I’m about to erupt if I don’t figure out my shit. “Listen, I’ve got to go.”

  “Lane . . . I miss your mom too. You barely talk about her. I worry that you’re not dealing with things.”

  “I’m dealing,” I reassure her.

  She sighs. “Well, I’m barely dealing. And I wasn’t even her daughter.”

  I pause. Sometimes I forget how close Reggie and my mom were.

  “Just know . . . know that you can talk to me,” she emphasizes. “About anything. Okay?”

  My heart softens. Reggie really is a good friend. But what am I supposed to say? That I decapitated my mother like she had done to so many others? That the loving woman Reggie mourns was a monster?

  “Okay, Reg,” I say instead. “Thanks for being you.”

  I feel her smile through the phone. “Love you, girl. I’ll bug you later.”

  This makes me chuckle. Just a little.

  “I’m sorry. Was that a laugh I just heard?”

  “Bye, Reg.” I click off and spend the next ten minutes researching Jacks and Aisha, although I don’t discover anything new.

  “Hey, you.”

  I glance up. Zach. My ex-boyfriend. Sort of. Our relationship is so much more complicated than that. We’ve done a good job of politely acknowledging each other over the past months. It’s not like we can avoid the other, going to the same school and all. But actually exchanging words? This is a first.

  And just the sight of him standing in all his tall, lean, dark-haired cuteness makes me genuinely smile. “Hey.”

  The terrifying image of him in my mother’s kill room flashes across my brain, and I shove it away. I can’t think about that. I won’t.

  His brows twitch like he just picked up on my thoughts, and I purposefully glance over to the bookshelf where he gave me my first orgasm. He glances too, and I wonder if he’s remembering as well.

  Zach brings his dark eyes back to mine. “Wanted to let you know Daisy called me last night.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Worried about you. Wanted to know if I’d seen you.”

  I sigh. “Sorry about that.”

  He props his hip on the desk, and I become hyperaware of his warmth and his boy-scented body wash. His eyes roam over me in that way they do when he takes in my red curly hair, green eyes, and pale freckly face.

  “Her mom died. Be patient.”

  My mom died too. Why don’t people seem to remember this? This is what I want to say but instead reply, “Well, thanks for letting me know.”

  He gives me a gentle, seemingly sad smile, and I want to ask him if he’s doing okay but don’t. I’m not sure why. Maybe because then he’ll ask about me, and I really can’t handle his probing. Or maybe because deep down I suspect he’s not doing well, and I don’t want to add that guilt to everything else going on in my brain.

  A few quiet seconds tick by, and he gives me a nod before heading off.

  If I could change schools, I would. I’m sick of the looks, the gossip, the hushed tones. This whole thing should’ve blown over by now, but it hasn’t.

  I’m Lane, niece to the Decapitator and daughter to the FBI director who lost her life saving my friend Zach. Or at least that’s what everyone believes.

  I am my mother’s daughter. I am a killer.

  That’s what I really am, and the reminder has something twitching inside me. I need to figure things out. Soon. Or that twitch is going to spiral violently out of control.

  Yet I had my chance last night with Jacks and didn’t take it. It’s been three—long—months since I’ve experienced that kick in my heart, that swell in my veins. Three months since I killed my mother.

  Though I’m not completely ready to admit it, in a crevice of my brain the thought sits there. Circling. Warming. A kill is what I need to get myself back on track. But with a premeditated kill I will cross the line I’ve been teetering on. Once I step over that line, it can’t be undone.

  Chapter Three

  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.