Killing Ruby Rose (The Ruby Rose Series)

by Jessie Humphries

  I shoved the file back into the console and looked out at the beach parking lot. The five-foot replica of Bill Brandon’s toothy grin stared back at me. Brandon was my mom’s increasingly nasty mud-throwing opponent in the upcoming District Attorney race. His campaign poster was plastered on the side of a parked advertising truck: “A Vote for Me Is a Vote for Change.”

  “What’dya think, Bill?” I asked. “Should Unruly Ruby change? Should I take a night off from my rogue ways to be wooed by one of the hottest guys in school?”

  He just smiled with that charming set of veneers only money could buy.

  I looked at the dashboard clock. I still had thirty minutes before LeMarq would get to the bar. Once there, he never left his drinking hole in less than an hour. I had a window of opportunity. I could go play Regular Ruby for a minute, find out if this whole Homecoming thing was happening, and get back to LeMarq before he left the bar. If there was any chance Liam really wanted to ask me, I had to find out.

  I blew out a deep breath and plugged the Water Street address into my GPS system. With a stomach full of butterflies that felt more like fully equipped hornets, I let my GPS’s Mary Poppins voice guide me toward the terrifying unknown. That’s right—I felt more comfortable trailing a known murderer than being asked out on a date.

  At least with LeMarq, I had a secure vehicle, a weapon, and a cell phone to use in case I needed to call for help. But if anything went wrong with Liam, I had nothing.

  No protection. No backup. I’d be totally vulnerable.

  The closer I got to the little destination star on my GPS screen, the more I questioned my decision. Every song that came up on my shuffle seemed to have strange overtones or dark undercurrents—“A White Demon Love Song” by The Killers, “I Will Follow You Into the Dark” by Death Cab for Cutie, and even my man MJ had to pipe in with “Thriller.” I finally turned it off.

  As I drove farther downtown and into the dark heart of the shipping harbor, I wondered how Liam was going to pull this off. Rose petals and candles hardly seemed dreamy among empty beer cans and broken meth needles. I imagined a trail of Hershey’s Kisses leading me through a camp of homeless people until I found a balloon with a note inside reading, “I’d pop if you’d go to Homecoming with me!” Or something equally idiotic.

  I really hoped Liam wasn’t that guy. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt—maybe he had something totally non-lame planned. Yet, looking around this neighborhood, all I had were doubts—and an increasingly bad feeling.

  “You have reached your destination,” said the eerily pleasant Mary Poppins voice.

  “If you could see where I am, Mary, you wouldn’t be so chipper,” I responded in my best British accent, realizing I’d rather sit in the car and have conversations with billboards and GPS systems than real people. My therapist would be so disappointed.

  I brought Big Black to a stop outside an industrial-sized warehouse. Building 366’s entrance was barely visible through the low-lying harbor fog. Only a few sickly yellow patches of light glowed over the large roll-up garage doors, all of which were closed.

  Growing anxiety and a waft of fish-flavored air prompted me to raise the windows. I pushed aside all my instincts to bolt by convincing myself that leaving Liam hanging would not be socially acceptable. Or nice. Which lately wasn’t a very strong argument for me, but this was Liam Slater.

  So where was he? What if this was some kind of mean joke?

  Easing off the brake, I let Big Black roll around to the side of the building. I flipped on the windshield wipers for a quick clean—and rubbed my eyes to do the same.

  That’s when I saw it.

  Beside an open door was the familiar old blue van I’d been following for months.

  And it wasn’t Liam’s.

  CHAPTER 2

  It took a few stretched-out seconds for me to process the fact that the text wasn’t from Liam at all.

  My stomach plummeted as I realized who owned that van: Charlie LeMarq. I fumbled to double-check the locks, pressing the lock a few extra times to be sure. My heart thumped in my ears. And my mind reached out for some invisible chain of logic.

  Had LeMarq discovered I’d been trailing him? Had he brought me here to teach me a lesson? But how could he have known? And how would he know to fake a text from Liam?

  I grabbed my night-vision binos and zoomed in on the threat. Written across the back window’s condensation was the dripping question: “You think you can stop me?”

  Then a bone-chilling scream from inside the building stabbed me like a dagger—a young girl’s desperate call for help. He had a child in that warehouse.

  Simultaneous flashes of heat and penetrating coldness warped my senses, debilitating my instincts to move, while images of horrifying scenarios consumed me.

  I fought the escalating pins and pricks of panic. I had to act.

  I reached into the false bottom of my console again and traded the heavy binos for the lightweight steel of Smith. Curling my fingers around the revolver’s grip, I dialed with my other hand.

  Almost immediately, I heard, “911, what’s your emergency?”

  “Send all available units to 366 Water Street. There’s been a child abduction…and if help doesn’t arrive soon…a probable homicide.” I tried to sound in control.

  “OK, 366 Water Street.” Pause…typing…“Help is on the way. Please tell me your name.”

  “Ruby Rose. Daughter to District Attorney Jane Rose and the former SWAT Sergeant Jack Rose—”

  “Sweetie,” she cut me off. “Did you say Jack R—?”

  “I have to go,” I said, pressing “End.” She didn’t need to call me sweetie. Right now I was anything but Sweet Ruby, and I wasn’t going to wait for the sirens to tip off Mr. LeMarq so he could slit the girl’s throat and escape. I knew his MO: no survivors, no witnesses. Just lifeless little girls with no forensic traces of his filth. I had to get in there. Whoever just screamed had no chance if I didn’t at least try.

  I exited Big Black and raised Smith securely in front of me with both hands, just like Dad had taught me. My hands trembled, like they knew this wasn’t pretend—this wasn’t a simulation. I stared at the van and the dark brick building looming behind it, wondering if I was capable of stopping a dangerous man like LeMarq. Especially without my father.

  I could almost hear Dad whispering over my shoulder. Telling me to slow my breathing, raise my awareness of every sound and movement surrounding me, and slowly put one foot in front of the other.

  You can do this, Rue. You have to.

  I did as he said and crept past LeMarq’s decrepit van, cursing when I inadvertently stepped in a puddle of muck and felt the nasty water enter Penelope’s peep toe.

  Another scream escaped out the cracked warehouse door ahead of me. A weaker, more defeated cry. And something swept through me—an inner surge of strength, a shot of adrenaline, a wave of determination. Whatever poetic crap it was, I used it to fight the fear. I wouldn’t let her die.

  I entered the building and found cover behind the metal skeleton of what used to be a large piece of machinery. Dad wouldn’t have fit, but I did easily. He always said my small size was one of my biggest assets.

  At the far end of the sprawling space full of old machinery left to rust and rot like robot corpses, the shadow of the grotesque monster stood dark against the wall. The only light in the warehouse emanated from his corner. As I rounded the perimeter, I hushed my Penelopes by moving on the balls of my feet. I tried to hear what he was saying, but he was too far away. Steadying my breath, I checked my watch—it had been approximately ninety seconds since the 911 call. I had another ninety seconds, maybe, before the sirens would be heard. Somehow I had to get close enough to trap LeMarq. I moved through the shadows and around the haphazard machines until I was close enough to his voice to stop and find a vantage point.

  I crouched behind a large, dead, steel apparatus. Its wires and electrical board had been ripped out like a medieval disemb
owelment. I raised my head up enough to catch LeMarq’s wicked eyes flicker in the unnatural blue light of a camping lantern he’d set up on a makeshift table. The sight of him caused shots of fear to rip through me. I clenched Smith tighter.

  And then I saw the girl. Sitting on the ground, her back against the wall on my right. Tied at the wrists and ankles. I was no more than thirty feet away from her, yet I was miles away from knowing how to save her with LeMarq standing between us.

  My heart missed more than one beat when I focused on her face.

  She looked—exactly like me! Well, me when I was about ten. We could have been twins. That had to be a coincidence…didn’t it? There’s no such thing as a coincidence, Rue, I heard Dad remind me.

  “Just wanted to say thanks for the delivery,” the monster said. But he wasn’t talking to the girl. He was on his cell phone. Who was he talking to? “Just beautiful.” He stared at her on the floor, admiring his catch.

  I looked again—her long blonde hair parted in the middle, her pale-gray eyes, her petite frame. Mini-Ruby was trembling with terror.

  “OK, ten-four, brother.” He shut the phone and moved toward her.

  The girl’s eyes were full of fear as she shuddered under his gaze. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a shining blade. She screamed again and tried to push herself further against the cement wall, as if it might give way and save her.

  No, only I could save her now. But there was no way for me to position myself between them. As soon as I announced my presence, he’d be able to grab her and use her as a shield. And he’d kill her. What other option did I have, though? He reached out toward her and—

  “Stay where you are or I’ll shoot,” I called as I cut out of the shadows to confront him.

  He grabbed the girl.

  “Who the hell are you?” he yelled in my direction with an expression I didn’t quite understand.

  I paused, wondering what drug he was on. He’d brought me here! I must’ve looked different with a gun in my hand. Or maybe he didn’t expect me to get here so soon.

  “I’m the person who’s finally going to stop you from killing one more innocent girl,” I said calmly. “Now, let her go!”

  I raised Smith to a higher sharpshooting position, and turned on the laser sight, aiming the little red light directly at his overgrown unibrow.

  He laughed. “You! You think you’re gonna stop me?” He slid the blade under the girl’s neck. Her eyes exploded with terror, and my soul exploded with rage.

  I took two balanced steps forward, fighting my growing anxiety. It was clear he didn’t take me seriously—after all, I wasn’t much older than the girl he had in his arms. But he was wrong not to. “That’s right, LeMarq. I’m going to stop you.” I glared at him to make sure he knew I meant it.

  “How’d you know my name?” He took two crooked steps backward, dragging the girl with him.

  “Don’t play games. You know who I am, just as well as I know who you are. You texted me. You wrote the message on your van!”

  His face scrunched up like he was trying to manually restart his useless brain.

  “Girl, I don’t have a clue who the hell you are or what message you think is on my van, but if you want her to live, you’ll drop your piece. Now!” He barked like a chained pit bull with more balls than brains.

  Was he telling the truth? The surprise in his eyes seemed so genuine. And he didn’t seem to have laid any traps. I studied his face for any tells, noting every strained gesture. If he really didn’t know who I was, then someone else had brought me here. Suddenly, everything felt wrong.

  I reanalyzed the situation: The police should arrive any second. He would hear them and drag her out as a shield—then kill her and run. I had no doubt that’s how it would go down. This was the time. Dad’s voice was loud and clear.

  Take the shot, Rue. Find the largest target area and pull the trigger. Save the girl.

  LeMarq’s legs were well shielded despite the girl’s small frame. His left bicep was exposed but wrapped around the girl’s chest. The winged demon on his shoulder was practically calling out to be exorcised. But my bullet would pass through the girl’s shoulder after his, and dangerously close to her heart.

  My only shot was his forehead—the one exposed area that would mean a sure kill. As much as I despised him and wanted him punished, I didn’t want to kill him. His life wasn’t mine to take. I silently begged him to just leave the girl and run. Yes, there was the risk of leaving evidence behind, sending him to prison for sure this time. But the bigger risk was me pulling the trigger and sending his brains somewhere far worse than prison.

  A wicked wind swirled across the space, and dust flew into my eyes. I was about to lower my weapon to shield myself from the grit, but the sound of sirens blared in the distance, pulling me out of my hesitation. It did the same for LeMarq. He pressed the knife into her skin. Blood sprayed. I pulled the trigger.

  The deafening gunshot rang out.

  Time stopped.

  The world changed into a black-and-white movie with a river of red flowing all around me.

  A ruby-red river of my own making.

  I ran to the girl and carried her a few feet away, applying pressure to her gushing neck, and shielding her from LeMarq’s dead body just a few feet away. She’d already been through enough. She didn’t need to see that.

  We didn’t talk. We didn’t cry. We searched for meaning in the gauzy haze of shock hanging over us. We waited in each other’s eyes, the same gray eyes, communicating without words. She was scared of dying. I was scared I might not have saved her.

  I willed her to stay alive.

  Soon a swarm of uniforms, white gloves, and disembodied voices cut in and out of my consciousness. Questions were asked, one-sentence answers were given, and the girl was ripped out of my arms and strapped to the stretcher.

  And then she was gone.

  Even when my mom appeared on the scene, wrapping me in a scratchy police blanket to shield me from the arriving paparazzi and escalating interrogations, the darkness seeped inside.

  I was a killer now, and nothing would ever change that. No matter how Dear D. A. Jane Rose played this one, I was guilty.

  But of what, I wasn’t quite sure.

  CHAPTER 3

  Alana wasn’t much of a bodyguard—or publicist—but, bless her heart, she tried.

  “Just keep walking,” she said, her arm unnecessarily wrapped through mine, escorting me out of last period. “When Chanel stink-eye over there gets pregnant by her twenty-four-year-old boyfriend, they’ll have a new scandal to talk about.” Her voice was loud enough for Chanel’s beady little eyes to turn to slits of spite. I wished Alana hadn’t said that—I didn’t need any more enemies.

  It had been several weeks since the shooting, but I’d only been back to school for one. While the stares hadn’t dissipated much, at least the camera crews had. Thanks to Mother Jane getting an injunction against the media to leave me alone at school, I’d only seen two paparazzi snipers hiding in trees today.

  Despite the fact that no charges were brought against me, the jury was still out in my trial by public opinion.

  “After I finish cheer practice and you finish your shopping, wanna come over?” Alana asked, putting undue emphasis on our code word for my psychotherapy appointments. She was the only person in the world besides my parents who knew about my long-term therapy. Therapy that I may or may not have needed before my dad died or the LeMarq shooting, but that I’d definitely needed since. She added, “We can watch a totally non-creepy, non-killing Halloween movie at my house. Maybe Scooby-Doo or something?”

  “Sure,” I said with my current version of a smile, keeping my head down as we crossed into the parking lot. “But do you mind if we do it at my house?”

  “Ruby, it’s time to get out of the dungeon.” She shook her head. “Your tan is paying the price. You know what I always say: Tan makes fat look good!”

  I pulled my head up to give her my se
riously? look. “First, you’re such a racist. White girls like me can’t get a brown Hawaiian glow like yours.”

  “Hey…” She pretended to be offended, but instead began checking out her carefully maintained bronze forearm.

  “Second, you’re a stick.”

  “Not after that Tic Tac I just ate,” she said with a wink. When Alana and I first met nearly a decade ago, she still had some of her “baby fat”—as she liked to call it. But even though she was now thinner than me, she was still self-conscious. It probably didn’t help that half of her huge family (in size and number) still called her Baby Fat.

  “Third, the breadth of your shallowness never ceases to amaze—”

  A whistle that sounded more like a birdcall cut me off. I looked over to a group of guys hanging out on a classic yellow muscle car with ridiculous pinstripes. The guys reminded me of the Macaws of the Amazon series I’d been watching late at night on the Discovery Channel during my recent bouts with insomnia.

  Display of brightly colored plumage: check.

  Loud sounds to attract the female gender: check.

  Posturing and puffing out of chests: check.

  Then I saw Liam at the back of the flock. His rainforest-blue eyes caught mine, clouding my defenses. I’d been avoiding this moment.

  I wanted to look away, I really did. But the way he was looking at me didn’t speak of preening or puffing. More like worry—or some other emotion I didn’t know how to read. He had to know by now how I got duped into going down to the docks in the first place—my ridiculous crush on him. Of course he knew. Everyone knew, thanks to a few corrupt cops and morally bankrupt tabloid reporters.

  I felt like a fool.

  “Call me later, Alana,” I said, already flying toward my hermit’s nest, where I could hide my pale feathers stained red at the tips.

  “You’d better answer!” she called out after me.

  Somewhere along the line I’d gotten the crazy idea that therapists’ offices were supposed to be tranquil, with the soothing sounds of bubbling water or something. No such luck.