Read Online Psycho Killer by Cecily von Ziegesar - Free Book Online

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 confrontedby 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