The Kill Club Read online

  Jazz will stop at nothing to save her brother.

  Their foster mother, Carol, has always been fanatical, but with Jazz grown up and out of the house, Carol takes a dangerous turn that threatens thirteen-year-old Joaquin’s life. Over and over, child services fails to intervene, and Joaquin is running out of time.

  Then Jazz gets a blocked call from someone offering a solution. There are others like her—people the law has failed. They’ve formed an underground network of “helpers,” each agreeing to eliminate the abuser of another. They’re taking back their power and leaving a trail of bodies throughout Los Angeles—dubbed the Blackbird Killings. If Jazz joins them, they’ll take care of Carol for good.

  All she has to do is kill a stranger.

  Praise for The Kill Club

  “An emotional rollercoaster ride...utterly genius.”

  —Carissa Ann Lynch, USA TODAY bestselling author of My Sister is Missing

  “AMAZING… One dark, addictive thrill ride of a book. It’ll make you think about how far you would go to save someone you love...and make you a little paranoid about that stranger standing too close to you at Trader Joe’s.”

  —Kathleen Barber, author of Follow Me

  “The protagonist, Jazz, is dark, gritty, and determined, with a wicked sense of humor and an occasional tender side, but she certainly doesn’t need anyone to save her... A knock-out thriller. Buckle up; you’re in for one hell of a ride.”

  —Hannah Mary McKinnon, author of Her Secret Son

  “A nonstop nail-biter...a must-read thriller.”

  —Diana Urban, author of All Your Twisted Secrets

  “A breathless, chilling adventure...intricate and masterful plotting, surprises around every corner, and an ending that chilled me to the bone.”

  —Megan Collins, author of The Winter Sister

  “Loved it! Intense, with multi-faceted characters, and twists that hit you over the head when you’re least expecting it.”

  —Meghan O’Flynn, author of the Ash Park series

  “An unputdownable thriller and a love letter to East LA.”

  —Halley Sutton, author of The Lady Upstairs

  “Jazz is a champion for anyone the system ever failed. The high-stakes tension of Strangers on a Train and the gut-wrenching twist of Black Mirror.”

  —August Norman, author of Come and Get Me

  “This phenomenal thriller shines a light on serious social issues without sacrificing a second of its action-movie pacing.”

  —Layne Fargo, author of Temper

  Also by Wendy Heard

  Hunting Annabelle

  The Kill Club

  Wendy Heard

  This is “riot city” after all.

  —Luis J. Rodriguez

  Contents

  SATURDAY

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  MONDAY

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  TUESDAY

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  WEDNESDAY

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  THURSDAY

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  FRIDAY

  Chapter 18

  SATURDAY

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  SUNDAY

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  MONDAY

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  EIGHT WEEKS LATER

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  SATURDAY

  1

  JAZZ

  SOMETHING IS ON fire. I can smell it.

  I pull my truck up to the curb in front of Carol’s little house. The street is quiet, the palm trees black against the charcoal night sky.

  I roll down my window and inhale. Yeah. Fire. Somewhere east.

  Joaquin is giggling wildly next to me. “A whole cup of coffee. He spilled it right on his teacher. I thought he was going to die. Literally. Die.”

  “Was the coffee hot?” I flick off my headlights.

  Joaquin gasps. “Oh my God, what if it was hot?” A new round of hysterics seizes him. “And, Jazz, this kid is really shy. I felt so bad. It looked like the teacher peed her pants.” His laughter rises an octave. He makes a weird squealing sound that sets me off, and now I’m laughing so hard I’m crying. Joaquin’s told me about this math teacher, an authoritarian woman who carries a yardstick around like a nun from the eighteen hundreds.

  I wipe my eyes. “Did he get in trouble?”

  “Naw. She was actually kind of cool about it. Said it’s what she gets for drinking too much coffee.”

  “That’s good.” I fix his long emo bangs, which have parted themselves dorkily straight down the middle. His hair is lighter than mine, more brown than black, like my biological mom.

  “Stop,” he protests and squirms away.

  “Do you want to look like the nerd you are?” I grab him and force him to let me fix his hair.

  The porch light goes on. Our faces snap toward it. My stomach sinks like I’m on an elevator. Carol. The name, even the thought of her, fills me with dread.

  “The warden is watching,” I say.

  “She’s so crazy right now, dude, she’s back at that snake charmer church.”

  “No!” I groan. “Not again. I can’t. I can’t.”

  “She’s speaking in tongues while she’s making dinner and stuff. Abbadabba shrrramdabba hanna shackalacka...” He rolls his eyes back in his head and raises his hands. It’s a perfect imitation of Carol. “She needs to pray to be a better cook. She burned the mac ’n’ cheese yesterday, set the fire alarm off. How do you even burn mac ’n’ cheese?”

  I shake my head. “She’s gonna try to make me go to church with her and repent for all my sins. Which is so tedious because, as you know, it is quite a list.” I flip my visor down and examine my reflection, fixing my own bangs, which hang shaggy over my dark eyes. My eyeliner is a mess. I lick a finger and try to do damage control.

  Joaquin gets his phone out and checks Snapchat. “She took my Miley Cyrus poster. Stole it while I was at school.”

  I shoot him a sideways look. “’Cause she knows you’re jacking off to it, you little pervert.”

  He elbows me, which makes me jam my finger into my eye. I cry out in protest. He shoves me again. I raise a fist like I’m going to actually punch him, and he cowers dramatically. I return to my eyeliner and he returns to Snapchat. He sighs. “But yeah. She stole
my precious Miley.”

  “In my day, we looked at the Victoria’s Secret catalog like normal people.”

  He waves his phone at me. “Take some of the parental controls off this thing and I’ll just look at other stuff on here.”

  “No way!”

  “You know I’ve seen porn,” he drawls in his most grown-up voice.

  They don’t prepare you for any of this. I turn toward him. “Just because you already saw it doesn’t mean I want you to have access to the whole internet in your room all by yourself. There’s some crazy shit out there.”

  “Worst sister,” he grumbles.

  “Best sister.”

  A corner of his mouth creases, mischievous. He has my crooked smile. “You’re conservative because you’re old.”

  “Shut up! You little shit.” He knows I’m already feeling weird about turning thirty even though it’s two years away.

  The front door opens and Carol appears, a slim silhouette against the golden living room light. “Time’s up,” I say. “I hereby release you from my gay dungeon of sin and return you to your pristine temple of Jesus.”

  He grabs his backpack and pockets his phone. “Thanks for dinner.”

  I capture him in a tight hug and press my face into his sweatshirt, savoring the scents of school and deodorant and laundry detergent. “I love you, kid.” He hugs me back, still sometimes cuddly despite the onset of puberty. I pull away and pat his cheek. “You’re due for a refill on your insulin. Meet you after school Monday?”

  “What about your show?” he asks.

  “I don’t have to be at the venue till nine. It’s plenty of time.” I grab his sleeve. “Are you taking care of yourself? Checking your blood sugar, tracking your carbs?”

  “I’m fine. I’m being good.” Unexpectedly, he leans over and kisses my cheek. His face is smooth and soft. I know he wishes he had facial hair, but I can’t help being glad it hasn’t come in yet. “Stop worrying,” he says.

  “But you’re my little angel.”

  “Stop!” He crashes out of the truck onto the sidewalk.

  “My baby!” I cry after him. He pulls his hood over his head and trots toward the house.

  I get out, beep the alarm on my truck and follow him across the street. The neighbors’ pit bulls hear our approach and erupt into barking. Through the chain-link fence, I see their shadows in the backyard as they strain against their chains. I feel sick with pity for their eternal captivity.

  The spring air is cool on my skin. I rub my arms, run my fingers over the tattoos that cover them from shoulder to wrist, and trot up the three concrete porch steps. In the middle of the dead lawn, Joaquin’s old play structure looks injured, as though it’s been frozen midlimp in a quest to run away. Carol’s old Ford Taurus cowers behind the ancient Chevy that’s been rusting in the driveway since I lived here. This used to feel like home, but now it feels like returning to the scene of a crime.

  Joaquin brushes past Carol with a muttered “Hey” and heads straight for his room. I get a rush of spiteful satisfaction at how much he obviously loves me more than her. It’s stupid; of course he loves me more. She’s the worst. But still.

  Carol watches me approach. Her dishwater-blond hair falls lankly to her shoulders, her weathered face drawn into a frown. Her eyes drift down over my Trader Joe’s T-shirt.

  “How ya doing?” I ask in a tight voice I never recognize.

  “You had him out too late,” she says in her old-school smoker voice.

  My hackles rise. “It’s only eight o’clock.”

  She grips the doorknob. “While you’re here, I may as well tell you. We’re going to be skipping Sunday dinners for a while.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I don’t have time to get into this with you right now, Jasmine.”

  I hold a hand out, but the door pushes forward. “That’s not our deal. If you’re going to cut Sundays, you have to give me a different—”

  The door clicks shut.

  I want to bang on it, bash it in and take Joaquin away from her. But I can’t. I have to just stand here staring at the door like a little bitch while she gloats over another in her endless chain of victories.

  2

  DEVIN

  ON THE SOFT sand below the Santa Monica Pier, with the lights of the Ferris wheel sparkling in the waves, kids in sopping T-shirts screech like seagulls as they chase each other with bits of seaweed stolen from the sea. Devin rests his forearms on the splintery wooden railing and pretends to watch them from above. He’s really got his eyes on Amber.

  A middle-aged woman leans on the railing nearby. He catches her checking him out, and he shudders. Like he’d ever be interested in this soccer mom–looking cougar. He returns his attention to Amber.

  Careful in her heels on the boardwalk, Amber weaves through the groups of tourists. She’s beautiful tonight, but then, she’s always beautiful. Her fluffy blond hair flutters in the salty breeze, her smooth, round cheeks and lips cherubic in the colorful light that shines from the stores and restaurants. She’s still wearing the black dress she wore to work, but it looks like she freshened up her makeup. Her lips are a bright, blinking crimson.

  She disappears inside Rusty’s Surf Ranch. Who is she meeting? Maybe her best friend; they hang out a lot in the evenings. Either way, Devin will make sure she gets home all right.

  He knows Amber loves the Twilight Saga—she has all four books and an Edward Cullen poster in her apartment—and he’s pored through the series, learning what she likes and doesn’t like. One thing he’s learned is that Edward is always, always trying to keep Bella safe, just like Devin tries to protect Amber.

  Devin pulls his baseball cap down over his eyes and enters the beach-themed restaurant. “Can I—” a hostess begins, but he brushes her off and heads for the bar.

  He sits on a stool with his back to the room and orders a beer from a muscular, white-toothed bartender. He’s learned to dread service industry people like this after a lifetime of them soliciting his father with their headshots in restaurants.

  Once Devin has his beer, he turns and scans the room for Amber. He keeps his face hidden behind his glass and the visor of his cap. This is out of consideration for Amber’s feelings; he’s perfectly entitled to be here. The restraining order expired three months ago and they won’t renew it unless he threatens Amber’s life, which of course he’d never do. Now that there’s no restraining order, Devin hopes they can move into the next phase of their relationship.

  If this were Twilight, they’d be at the part of the book where Edward is keeping an eye on Bella, but Bella can’t find out without risking the Cullen family’s secret. It’s a risk Edward is willing to take. That’s how much he loves Bella, and this is how much Devin loves Amber.

  There she is, tucked into a booth near the stage where a singer wails along with her acoustic guitar. Amber sits close to her companion, a handsome, well-dressed Asian man. Who the fuck is this?

  As Devin watches, she awards the man a sunny, blue-eyed smile, baring snow-white teeth. Her wavy mop of blond hair cascades over her shoulders and around her cleavage.

  Hot, angry heat burns through Devin’s limbs.

  This is too much. He needs to take control, like Edward did in Port Angeles when Bella almost got herself raped by that gang of guys. Yes, that’s the part of the story they’re in, the part where Edward takes control.

  Someone sits at the bar a few stools down from Devin. He glances over and snorts out a laugh. It’s the middle-aged woman again. She gives him a shy smile.

  He wants to tell her she’s wasting her time, that he’s already got a girl twenty years younger than her and twenty times hotter, but she takes a flip phone out of her purse, opens it and puts it to her ear. A flip phone? Really? She’s poor and old. Well, she can dream.

  Amber and the asshole finish their dinner and
go on the Ferris wheel. They play games in the arcade. They stroll around the wood-planked pier. This piece of shit is barely taller than Amber. Devin himself is six foot one.

  Amber and her date take a seat on a bench at the end of the pier near a street musician with an electric guitar and a parrot. Beyond the musician, the dark ocean laps peacefully, and a full moon shines down on the water. She rests her head on her date’s shoulder.

  Devin can’t feel his hands or feet. The jealousy that sweeps through his gut drains blood from every other part of his body.

  Eventually they get up and stroll back toward the entrance to the pier. She leans into her date’s ear and says something, points to the arcade. The douchebag finds a pole to lean on. Amber turns into the arcade—oh, this is perfect. She’s going to the restroom.

  Devin hurries past Little Dickwad, fighting the urge to punch him. He trots through the noisy arcade, past teenagers playing foosball and girls in a video game dance-off. The back door releases him into the empty, restless night. A women’s restroom sign flashes brightly against the concrete beams and the stacks of empty crates and pallets. He slinks along the side of the building. He waits for voices, the flush of toilets, anything to indicate there are more women in the bathroom with Amber. Nothing.

  He tiptoes through the door into the brightly lit, urine-and-bleach-scented ladies’ room. A row of four stalls stretches off to the right opposite two dingy sinks. One of the stall doors is shut.

  Softly, carefully, he pulls the exterior door closed behind him.

  The tinkling of urine hitting toilet water echoes around the concrete room. He hopes she’s using a seat protector. He doesn’t want to catch any diseases.

  The toilet flushes. He tucks himself behind the door of the first stall. She should have a chance to wash her hands.

  She opens the stall door and click-clacks toward the sink. He can see her in the mirror; her cheeks are flushed, and a small smile plays on her red lips. She dispenses soap and washes her hands in the sink. When she turns to use the hand dryer, she spots him.

  It’s on.