Psycho Killer Read Free Page B

eliminating Nate altogether first occurred to Serena last spring, during her Concepts in Political Philosophy class. The class spent an entire week discussing consequentialism. Machiavelli, John Stuart Mill, Henry Kissinger. The theory went like this: Improving the lives of the people was the final goal, regardless of
how
that goal was achieved. A good outcome was a good outcome, no matter how that outcome was attained.
    Or who had to die in the process.
    The way Serena had come to see it, Nate was the only obstacle. Once he was eliminated, both she and Blair would be happy again. Everything could go back to the way it used to be. They would cut class and lie on their backs in Sheep Meadow in Central Park, watching the clouds drift by overhead. They’d stay up all night dancing in their underwear. They’d watch
TheHunger
—that oddly addictive classic vampire movie starring David Bowie and Susan Sarandon when they were young and beautiful—and
Cat People
, another good one. They’d get their nails done at J. Sisters together, ordering Waldorf salads from the Waldorf Hotel to the pedicure station just to be super-cheesy because they’d make their appointments under the name Waldorf. Everyone would secretly or not-so-secretly be jealous of them, but they’d both pretend not to notice because they didn’t need anyone else when they had each other.
    The poison was all gone. Serena withdrew the needle, tucked the syringe back into her bag, and tossed the heavy, balled-up pair of yellow socks back into the drawer. There. Now all Nate had to do was pack a nice big bong hit, smoke it up, and…
    And?
    She’d asked the groundskeeper at Hanover how he kept the school’s rodent population under control. He explained in detail how he injected piles of leaves with poison and burned them at nighttime. When the squirrels and rats and moles and groundhogs inhaled the smoke, the poison triggered a sudden rush of blood to the head, causing the vermin’s eyeballs to explode.
    Put that in your pipe and smoke it.
    Best not to think about that
, Serena scolded herself as she made her way downstairs, across the gleaming foyer, and out the front gate.
    It was dark out now. Yellow taxis zoomed up and down Park Avenue, ferrying Upper East Siders to their various dining appointments. Fuck walking. Serena raised her hand to flag one down. She couldn’t wait to see Blair again.
    An occupied cab pulled to a stop directly in front of her. The passenger door opened and a boy she knew well—Jeremy ScottTompkinson, one of Nate’s St. Jude’s friends—stumbled out. Jeremy’s parents were cousins of James Hewitt, the polo player who’d had a dalliance with Princess Diana and who was thought to be Prince Harry’s real father. They’d come to America after an insurance scandal involving a string of dead polo ponies and a fire at their home in Kent, and had never looked back. Jeremy was a cross between Mick Jagger (skinny, full lips, long hair in his eyes) and Jerry Garcia (perpetually stoned).
    “Yo Serena jeez whatcha doing back hope ya didn’t get kicked outta boarding school aren’t you hot in that coat with those gloves on it’s like seventy degrees tonight,” Jeremy wheezed. It was safe to presume that he was already high, hence his lack of punctuation.
    “Hello.” Serena clutched her bag to her chest, afraid he might catch a glimpse of the poisonous syringe. If only she’d bought the regular-sized hobo instead of this stupid
micro
hobo. “May I take this cab?”
    Jeremy stepped aside and she ducked into the backseat. He slammed the door closed behind her, swaying in his oversized khaki pants. His rock star haircut had grown out over the summer into something halfway between a mullet and a Sally Hershberger shag.
    “You’re really freaking hot,” he told her with a stoned leer through the open window. “I just have a quick errand to run, otherwise I’d like, take you out on the town or something.”
    “Too bad,” Serena