Psycho Killer (7 page)

Someone, someone at that very table, was going to die.

S SEEN DANGLING HEAD OUT WINDOW

Is it just me, or is everyone a little jumpy of late? Is it the change of seasons? One day it’s hot, one day it’s freezing. Is it the harvest moon? Is it that extra shot of espresso Starbucks puts in their venti latte? Is it due to lack of sleep, jet lag, PMS, STDs, S.E.X.?

No?

Yet we can’t throw off that haunting, horror movie feeling that something or someone is watching us, waiting for us, just around the corner or behind the next tree.

Can we just make a little pinky swear right now and promise not to wander the streets of the Upper East Side alone, especially after dark?

Jeepers creepers. I’ve got the willies just thinking about it.

On a lighter note, we’re certainly off to a good start. You sent me tons of e-mail, and I had the best time reading it all. Thanks so much. Doesn’t it feel good to be bad?

YOUR E-MAIL

3 GUYS AND 2 GIRLS

I
and
K
are going to have a little trouble fitting into those cute dresses they picked up at
Bendel’s
if they keep stopping in at the
3 Guys Coffee Shop
for hot chocolate and French fries every day. I went in there myself to see what the fuss was about, and I guess I could say my waiter was cute, if you like ear fuzz, but the food is worse than at
Jackson Hole
and the average person in there is like, 100 years old. It is safe in there, though. Which is a lot more than I can say for the rest of the neighborhood now that you-know-who is back.

SIGHTINGS

C
at
Hermès
picking up yet another pair of those custom-made pigskin loafers he likes. The boy practically
lives
in that store.
B
’s mother holding hands with her new man in
Cartier
. Hmmm, when’s the wedding? Also: a girl bearing a striking resemblance to
S
, coming out of one of those warehouses in the meatpacking district that have not been turned into a boutique hotel or fashion boutique and still have walk-in freezers full of carcasses inside them. Booking her own private freezer?
B
in
Hammacher Schlemmer
on Fifty-seventh Street, trying out the darts, the knives, the bowling balls, and the golf clubs, looking fiercely determined, as usual. Wedding gifts for Mom, or is she gearing up for battle? And finally, very late last night,
S
was seen leaning out her bedroom window over
Fifth Avenue
, looking a little lost.

Well, don’t jump, sweetie. Things are just starting to get good.

That’s all for now. See you in school tomorrow—if we survive the night.

You know you love me,

“Serena? Aren’t you up?” Lillian van der Woodsen glided into her daughter’s room and swept back the heavy white curtains cloaking the windows. “You’re going to school today, remember? They’re expecting you.”

A streak of morning light fell upon Serena’s closed, long-lashed eyelids.
I must look so peaceful and innocent
, she mused as she pretended to be sound asleep.

Her mother ducked under the bed’s white eyelet canopy and tugged back the white eyelet quilt. “Serena, honestly. We don’t want any trouble on your first day.”

As if being late was such a terrible crime. If her mother only knew.

“But Mommy,” Serena moaned, yanking her skimpy gray Calvin Klein cashmere slip down over her hips. “It’s freezing!”

Ignoring her daughter’s protests, Lillian opened the closet door and rifled through the clothes. Something scratchy and heavy landed on Serena’s long, bare legs.

“There’s your new uniform,” her mother instructed. “Hurry up and put it on.”

Before leaving for boarding school, Serena had burned all her old school uniforms and flushed them down the toilet. Last week Lillian had purchased two new ones from Constance Billard’s online store. One for winter and one for spring.

Serena sat up and fingered the pleated maroon skirt. “Pretty,” she yawned with lazy disinterest. She glanced outside. The Metropolitan Museum of Art stared coldly back at her from across Fifth Avenue, its cool limestone steps abandoned and lifeless save for a lone tourist wearing a backpack and a beret. “Wait,” she demanded. “Where is everybody?”

Her mother pulled open the top drawer of her dresser, frowning with displeasure at the mess inside. “Where do you think they are? At school already. Tights. Where do you keep your tights?”

Beneath the tangled array of bras, underpants, socks, and tights, tucked inside a black velvet sleeve, was an Italian switchblade with a mother-of-pearl handle, custom-made to fit Serena’s hand. She bolted out of bed and shoved her mother out of the way. “Thank you. I’ve got it. I can dress myself.”

Ten minutes later, Serena stood in the penthouse foyer, chewing a morsel of croissant as she waited for the elevator. Her Burberry raincoat was unbuttoned. Her Ralph Lauren boots were untied. Her Wolford tights were old and holey. Her Brooks Brothers boy’s shirt was tattered and frayed. And her hair was unbrushed. But at least she was on her way.

The elevator pinged perkily and the doors rolled open. Serena went inside and perched on the tiny red velvet bench in the corner, bending over to tie her boots as the elevator plummeted toward the lobby.

Ping
.

The doors rolled open and she stood up, only to be confronted
by a short girl with a prim auburn bob and fearful gray eyes. The elevator had not yet reached the lobby. It had stopped on the third floor.

“Oh!” the girl gasped, hesitating between the doors. She wore a new Constance uniform, just like Serena’s. “I—”

“Nice skirt,” Serena commented with a friendly smile. “Come on, get in. I think we’re late.”

But the girl just stood there blocking the doors.

“Parlez-vous français?” Serena tried. “Viens, viens. Vite, vite!”

Ping, ping, ping
, went the doors as they attempted to close.

“Serena,” the girl whispered slowly, her mouth agape. “Serena van der Woodsen.”

“That’s my name. Don’t wear it out,” Serena quipped, borrowing a phrase Blair used to repeat over and over again back in third grade. She frowned at the younger girl. “Are you coming or what?”

The girl’s cheeks were pale. “I know what you did,” she stammered. “Up at Hanover… You killed him—my brother Jude. I saw from the window. I was visiting.”

Now it was Serena’s turn to stare. She’d always thought of those Hanover boys as disposable, without identities or connections. But perhaps Jude wasn’t so obscure after all.

“Jude was from Massachusetts.”

The girl nodded. “Our parents are divorced. Dad got Jude and took him to Boston.” She adjusted her white turtleneck and buttoned the top button of her navy blue J.Crew cardigan, as if to protect her bare neck from harm. “Mom got me.”

Serena chewed on her thumbnail, reopening a scab on the cuticle. Blood smeared her bottom lip, staining it red. “Lucky Mom,” she said, staring the girl down.

Ping, ping, ping
, went the doors. The switchblade hung heavy in the pocket of Serena’s plastic Burberry raincoat.

“Get in here.” She grabbed the girl’s wrist and pulled her inside the elevator. “We’re late for school.”

As soon as the doors closed and the elevator began to descend, Serena pulled out the red STOP button and the elevator froze, suspended mid-floor.

“You shouldn’t even be in school,” the girl whimpered. She wiped her nose on her sleeve, leaving a trail of slimy green mucous on the blue cashmere. “You should be in prison.
Murderer
.”

Serena grasped the switchblade and removed it from her pocket. It wasn’t as though she enjoyed killing people. All she wanted was for things to go back to normal. But she couldn’t very well allow this girl to go blabbing all over Constance about how Serena had shish-kebabbed her brother. She took a deep breath. She was already late for her first day back, and now she had to deal with this. She flicked her wrist and the razor-sharp knife blade sprang to attention with a gratifyingly efficient click.

The joys of fine Italian craftsmanship.

The girl backed against the smooth, mahogany-paneled wall of the elevator. “Don’t,” she pleaded. “Please, don’t.”

Serena raised her hand. The girl lunged for the STOP button, hoping to depress it and get to the lobby before it was too late. But when she reached it she found that her right hand was no longer attached to her wrist. Soon her pretty auburn scalp was no longer attached to her head, nor were her piercing gray eyeballs attached to their sockets.

Unfortunately the carpeting in the elevator was fine, camel-colored lambswool, donated to the building by the wife of the Greek shipping magnate in 12A. It would have to be replaced.

Ping
. The elevator doors opened onto the lobby and Serena stepped out, her cheeks rosy from all that exercise.

A dapper uniformed doorman swung open the building’s heavy glass and cast iron door. “Have a grand day, dear,” he greeted her in an Irish accent, tipping his hat. “ ’Tis a pleasure to have you back.”