Killing Ruby Rose (The Ruby Rose Series)

by Jessie Humphries

  If I’d had a gun, I would’ve shot the damn clock for ticking so obnoxiously at me—an impulse that, admittedly, screamed “anger-management issues.” But since my anger was directed toward an inanimate object and not a person, it was totally fine.

  Or so I told myself.

  Plus, my concealed weapons license had been suspended and Smith taken into evidence. I was harmless.

  “How are things at home?” Dr. Teresa asked in her I-know-what-you’re-thinking-better-than-you-do voice.

  “Fine,” I said, refusing eye contact. She sat only a few feet away in her oversized love seat, which made her appear intentionally undersized. She wasn’t the only one who could analyze others’ choices.

  “How’s your mother handling the press?” she said. It was a nudge—a pleasant, patient push. I knew this tactic well. She was focusing the attention on someone else to make me more comfortable until I opened up naturally.

  And if that didn’t work, she’d move on to the crowbar-to-a-nail strategy.

  “I’m not sure,” I responded, biting at a cuticle that just wouldn’t behave. I had tactics, too.

  “Ruby,” she said, lowering her voice into what I liked to call The Tone (a deeper version of her voice that meant it was time to drop the pretenses), “for me to help, you have to give me more than three-word answers.”

  I still didn’t want to look at her, but I felt myself soften a little. The Tone had that effect on me. I was pretty sure she was part witch. But in a good way. I liked to think of her as my own personal Mother Teresa. At least when she was in one of those super-intuitive saintly kinds of moods where she seemed to be molding my soul like Play-Doh. In some ways, she was more of a mother to me than my own mom—especially during campaign season.

  For the last eleven years, she’d been here for me whenever I needed her.

  Signs of depression or withdrawal? Call Dr. T.

  Night terrors and recurring dreams of being locked behind bars? Dr. T can fix it.

  Fighting at school? Get Dr. T on the phone, stat!

  Some years were better than others. In fact, in the last few I’d only been checking in with her every six months or so. But after Dad died, we reinstated our weekly Wednesday sessions at three. And since “the incident” with LeMarq, we’d been meeting every Friday, too.

  Dr. T was one of the only people in the world who truly knew me—and still liked me.

  She used to be my mom’s therapist, too, but apparently the D. A. didn’t need it (or have time for it) anymore. Jane Rose was now holding herself out as a beacon of mental health and stability, warming everyone with her powerful glow.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you would like to talk about today?” Dr. T uncrossed her legs and sat forward in her seat so only a few uncomfortable feet divided us—another one of her tactics to open me up. Next would be the crowbar.

  I tucked my feet under my knees and bought myself a few more inches of personal space on the couch.

  We sat in silence for a while. She would be patient—eternally, painfully, patient.

  “Why don’t I feel bad that LeMarq’s dead?” I asked, point-blank.

  “Because you did the right thing,” she said without hesitation.

  “Yeah, but killing is wrong. Morally, ethically, biblically wrong.” Not that I’d ever read the Bible, but that sounded right. “And even though I hate the fact I had to do it, I sort of…don’t hate that he’s dead.” I hung my head, knowing these words would be dangerous spoken outside this room.

  “You killed to save a life. Defense of others is not only legally acceptable, but morally, ethically, and biblically as well.” Her lips spread into a soft smile. “That’s precisely why no charges have been filed against you. You know all this.”

  It was true. I knew all this because it had been carefully explained to me more times than necessary. And although my mind understood it, my heart and soul didn’t seem to be getting the same message.

  Part of me couldn’t help feel a satisfaction in LeMarq being dead and gone. At least he would never kill again. And yet, nothing seemed to cleanse me from the dirtiness of being the one who’d pulled the trigger. I shouldn’t have been forced to kill. I believed in law and order. I was born and raised with the principles of “innocent until proven guilty,” and “justice is blind.” Seriously, my mom sat me in front of that damn Justice statue every Saturday one summer so she could work while I studied. Turns out, Justice is a scantily clad, blindfolded woman holding a phallic sword and a set of scales—more like a Vegas stripper than an appropriate representation of fairness. And although I’d seen enough to know that our justice system didn’t always live up to its ideals, I still believed it was the only and best solution for handling criminals. Who was I to have single-handedly sentenced someone—even someone like LeMarq—to the death penalty?

  “The newspapers don’t see it that way,” I said. “They think the reason no charges have been filed against me is because my mom’s the D. A.” I looked out the window, wondering how many so-called journalists would love to be privy to this conversation. “It’s been nearly two months, and they won’t leave me alone.”

  “Don’t pay attention to them,” she said. “I keep telling you, don’t give them the satisfaction.”

  “But aren’t they right to question what happened? None of this makes any sense.” I rubbed my temples, trying to put together a puzzle for which I didn’t have all the pieces. “Somebody lured me there. Somebody sent me a text.”

  She straightened her back and ran her fingers through her dark hair. She always did that when she felt like she was losing control of the conversation. “Have they been able to trace the number that texted you yet? Or find out who LeMarq was on the phone with when you arrived?”

  “They haven’t said anything if they have.”

  “I’m sure they will. It’s only a matter of time before they complete their investigation and clear you officially,” she assured me. As if she was in a position to do so. “We all believe you did the right thing.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t think Detective Martinez believes me.” I bit at that damn cuticle as though everything else would be OK if I could just fix my poorly executed manicure.

  “Why would you think that?” she asked.

  “You should have seen how he grilled me when he asked me to come into the precinct for more questioning. About why I had a gun with a laser sight in the first place, why my dad would give me a concealed weapons license, why I took the kill shot, why I would be so gullible as to respond to a text from an unknown number, why I didn’t wait for the police, why I’ve been in therapy for most of my life…”

  “Wait. He asked you about therapy?” Her eyebrows drew together, highlighting a few wrinkles her organic oils and yoga meditations hadn’t managed to erase.

  “Yeah, I’m not even sure how he knew. I guess that’s why he’s Mr. Big-Shot Detective.”

  “What did you say his name was?” She reached for her pen and pad of paper.

  “Detective Martinez. With a capital M for Meathead. Why?” I asked.

  “Did you know this detective before the incident?” She answered my question with a question. Why do therapists always do that?

  “Yeah, he used to be my dad’s partner, like twenty years ago. Before Dad switched over to SWAT,” I said, trying to use the lack of personal space to my advantage for once and read the notes on her lap. Detecting the angle, she pulled the notepad up to her chest, removing the distraction. “That’s why it sucks that he’s the lead investigator. He hated my dad. And I think he hates me.”

  “Who told you he hated your dad?”

  “My mom. She said something about bad blood between them, and I should never talk to him without her present.”

  Dr. T looked puzzled. “Though I’m sure you’d do well to follow her legal advice, I’m not so sure he would have any reason to hate you.”

  “How about that I killed somebody,” I said. “I’m a Vigilante Teen Assassin. At least
that’s what TMZ called me. They can’t get over the accuracy of my shot. They think that because LeMarq humiliated my mom in court, I might be the one who set him up.”

  “I told you not to pay attention to that filth—”

  “They’re very thorough, you know.” I cut her off. “They found out my ‘abnormally high’ IQ results, my ‘strange obsession’ with combat training under my father’s tutelage, my prolonged leave of absence from school after he died, and even my ‘isolating behavior’ at school since. They even quoted this girl in my class named Taylor, saying, ‘She never really did fit in.’ ”

  I shook my head, knowing Taylor’s brutally public words were true. Even when I was little, I knew I wasn’t like everyone else. Sure, I had the clothes and the shoes and the general skills to win superficial popularity points. But most girls, like Taylor, didn’t go around knee-thrusting bullies in the crotch, even if they deserved it. And it probably didn’t help when Dad reprimanded me for said crotch-kicking with a poorly concealed smile on his face.

  In the last couple years, I’d managed to get involved in stuff like debate and student government, but I’d never managed to be, well, normal.

  “And yesterday,” I continued, “I saw this picture on the cover of a magazine—white rose petals dripping with blood, falling over an unidentified headstone—and above it in block letters: ‘Ruby Rose: Teen Hero Bleeding with Grief Over Her Fallen Father? Or Drenched with Guilt Over Her Dead Victim?’ ”

  Dr. Teresa must have sensed my latent insanity and put the pad and pen down to clear her throat and get my attention back.

  “Let’s not focus on that right now.”

  “But they’re right!” I shook my head in defiance. “What the hell was I doing there? How did this happen to me?”

  I knew exactly how this had happened, though. I’d brought it all on myself. I’d been tracking LeMarq (and a few others like him) for weeks, and voila—the consequences had arrived. I knew that what I was doing was dangerous. I just hadn’t quite realized how killing a monster like him would make me feel.

  “We don’t know why this happened…” She trailed off, seemingly looking for the right words. She was always exact in her language, which made for long pauses. “But I’m sure your mother and the police will figure it out.”

  I felt the bubbling need to purge myself of my sin. I had to tell someone what I’d done. Someone safe.

  “I want to tell you something.” I made eye contact for the first time today. A risky move, and one I didn’t take lightly. “Doctor-patient confidentiality, OK?” I knew the law.

  “Of course.” She uncrossed her flared-leg yoga pants and sat forward with anticipation.

  “I was sort of stalking Charlie LeMarq,” I semiwhispered, just in case there was a bug in the room.

  There it was, the truth I’d been holding on to. The key bit of information I refused to give Detective Martinez so he could crucify me. The secret I’d never even told Mom or Alana.

  Except Dr. T’s eyes weren’t lit up anymore. Shouldn’t she be relieved at the breakthrough? I’d finally opened up. Granted, I’d done so with a real doozy, but she had to be used to my personality by now.

  “Excuse me? Stalking?” She tried to sound calm, but her shock reverberated between us.

  “I was tailing him. Doing surveillance,” I said like it was a reasonable thing to do. “The guy was literally getting away with murder over and over again, and I wanted to catch him doing something so he would finally be put away. I had no intention of killing him. I swear.” I held up my hands like that would convince her.

  “So the night you confronted him, you were not following him?” she asked, suspicion snaking up between us.

  “I was going to, but then I got the text that I thought was from Liam.” I reached for my phone to prove it to her. Thank heavens the forensic team had let me have my phone back; otherwise, even I could have doubted this all really happened. “See, here’s the text—”

  “I believe you.” She waved away the phone. “I just have to think about this. It should have been shared with me a long time ago.”

  “I couldn’t,” I argued. “You would’ve convinced me to stop following them.”

  “Excuse me? Them?” She angled her head at me as if she hadn’t heard right.

  “Yeah, I was sort of…following five different guys.” I braced myself as she took her time absorbing my words. “You told me to find an outlet.”

  “Ruby,” she said with a shake of her head, clearly indicating to me that my argument wouldn’t work. “And you promise you’re not doing this anymore?”

  “Of course not. Please, Dr. T, you can’t tell anyone. It would change everything. It would look like I planned to go there and murder him, and that would establish mens rea—the definition of criminal intent.” I imagined the headline “Teen Sociopath Planned Killing All Along.” And then there would be a trial. And sentencing. And those horribly loose-fitting orange jumpsuits with matching rubber shoes that not even Hollywood royalty can pull off—

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “You can trust me, you know that.” I believed her.

  I waited to feel better now that I’d gotten it off my chest—but I didn’t feel better. I rolled my shoulders and neck to see if that would help. Maybe medication was the answer.

  “You have a bright future, and no one can take that away from you.” She looked at me like she wanted to stamp the words across my soul. “No one.”

  “What about my mom’s political opponents?” I could play devil’s advocate all day. In fact, I was good at seeing the half-empty side of things. My Ruby Rose–colored glasses were actually quite dark. “Last week, Bill Brandon went on CNN, spouting off about poor gun laws in California. He wants legislators to pass retroactive legislation making it a felony to even own a handgun in California. I’ll be a felon. Good-bye, Stanford.” I waved adieu to my bright future with the grace of a well-trained beauty queen.

  Dr. T got up and stalked toward her desk. “That’s not going to happen. They’re all just sensationalizing the incident for their own benefit. And that schmuck Brandon is crossing the line by involving you in his campaign against your mother. He knows his retroactive comments are ridiculous, but they give him more media traction. That’s all it is. It would never pass.”

  “Schmuck. Is that a clinical term, doctor?” I asked, smiling for the first time today. I liked it when I wasn’t the only one in the room with unrestrained resentment.

  “I’ve used worse.” She reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a white envelope before returning to her Throne of Discernment. “I was going to wait to give this to you, but it feels like now’s the time.”

  “Is that my one Get Out of Jail Free card I’ve been asking my mom for?”

  “It’s a letter.” She stroked its smooth face like it was a velveteen rabbit, and placed it next to me. It had no stamp or return address, just my name in bubbly elementary school lettering. “If you feel comfortable, I’d like you to read it aloud.”

  I had a good idea of what it was. And I wasn’t sure I did feel comfortable.

  I reached for it slowly, like it could jump away. I broke the envelope’s seal and pulled out a piece of paper. A picture fell into my lap.

  It was me. My blonde hair, my pale-gray eyes.

  No, it wasn’t me. It looked like my fifth-grade picture, but with a bandage on my neck.

  It was the girl. The one I’d held at the warehouse. The one who’d clung to me as I tried to save her life. I’d been wondering how she was doing for weeks now.

  A row of goose bumps raised across my neck.

  “A therapist I know gave me the envelope to deliver to you,” said Dr. T. “Can you read the note?”

  I took another good look at the picture before unfolding the accompanying paper.

  Dear Ruby,

  Thank you for saving my life. No matter what anyone says, you will always be my hero. I’ll never forget you.

  Love,

&nb
sp; Riley Bentley

  My eyes found Mother Teresa’s—hers had welled up with tears, while mine were profoundly dry from shock.

  “Don’t you think it’s strange that she looks so much like me?” I said, holding up the picture of the girl. Riley.

  “What?” It was Dr. T’s turn to be surprised. She wiped her eyes to better study the small wallet-sized photo. “Well, yes, she does look a lot like you—but that’s surely just a coincidence.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences. My dad always said that they’re just clues.” The emptiness echoed within me as I remembered his words.

  “Well, what kind of clue would you suppose the similarity between you is?” she asked, clearly curious enough to indulge me.

  I thought about it for a few seconds, though I didn’t really need that long. I had been thinking about it for eight hours a night for over a month now.

  “I think whoever lured me there was sending me a message.” There, I said it. Talk about breakthroughs. Two secrets revealed in one session. This had to be my record. And saying it out loud only clarified it in my mind. Whoever was behind this planted a girl who looked just like me, to make sure I saw the connection. To make sure I protected her. To make sure I pulled the trigger.

  That’s who LeMarq was talking to on the phone—the one he thanked for the “delivery.” There was a man behind the curtain, pulling the strings. A mastermind. But I couldn’t fathom who or why.

  “Maybe one of the other criminals I’d been following discovered me and was trying to get me killed or arrested,” I said, thinking out loud. “Maybe someone who had a grudge against my mom.”

  “Ruby,” Dr. T said, “why don’t we break a bit early today. I don’t want you to go crazy overthinking this.”

  I looked back to her, expecting a symbolic cookie for my hard work in “opening up.” Instead, she’d said the C-word and started putting papers in her briefcase.

  I was about to ask what I’d said wrong when she stood and spoke first. “I’ll see you on Friday.” My mouth dropped open in shock—she’d never ended a session early. And she’d never reacted so brusquely.