“And you’re telling me this now because…?”
“Because, Ruby, it matters!” she snapped. “Things ended very badly between us. And now that he’s the lead investigator on your case…let’s just say he could make things very difficult for us.”
I stared at the floor, not knowing what to say or think. All I could think about was my poor, loyal, dead dad.
“Believe me, I never wanted to burden you with this,” she said, anger and guilt constricting her voice. “Damn it, I just needed you to know that you can’t trust Martinez. Anything he says or does is dangerous.”
She got up and crossed the great divide between us.
“Ruby, words can’t express how sorry I am for my mistakes,” she said, sitting next to me and pulling my chin up to face her. “But it was a long time ago and I need you to know I’m doing everything I can to make it right, OK?”
“OK,” I parroted back, and turned away. Just when I thought she was making efforts to tear down the wall between us, it had grown even taller. Who was this woman? Was she ever the mom I thought she was? Had I deluded myself into believing we were ever a happy family?
“Why?” I asked feebly, too shocked and hurt to muster the emotion of anger quite yet.
“Why what?” She playacted that she was confused by my question, as if I had posed an irrelevant math problem.
“Why’d you cheat on Dad?”
She put her head in her hands. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Maybe even after all this time she still didn’t understand it herself.
It took a few minutes for her to gather herself, and I let her. My usual MO was to react impulsively, aggressively. But right now, I felt stunned.
“Go lie down for a while.” Not a request. “I’ll get some dinner and I promise, we’ll talk some more. But for now, I need to make sure this text you received is handled.”
“Fine.” I grabbed my phone and left her office. I didn’t want to be near her anymore.
As soon as I got to my room, I threw down my phone and crammed the pillow over my face, no longer wanting to hear my mother’s cold voice in my head, or hold the girl’s image in my hand, or taste the tears running down my cheeks.
CHAPTER 6
My phone’s vibration from my bedside table woke me up. Disoriented, I grabbed for it and cracked an eyelid to check the time. Five a.m. What the…?
I rolled over and rubbed my lids to try to un-paste the contacts from my eyeballs. I never fell asleep with them in—and this inability to blink without burning pain was why.
My phone vibrated again. I rubbed hard enough that one eye was usable. I had ten text messages! Three from Alana, each one increasingly more agitated by my radio silence, and the rest from two different unknown numbers. The first unknown number read:
Hey, it’s Liam. Hope u dont mind Alana gave me your #. Just wanted to make sure ur ok. & I wanted to tell u something. Call me.
I didn’t mind. Actually, I couldn’t stop the rising feeling of totally not minding. If a girl could shoot and kill someone, then pass out on the cafeteria floor like a lunatic, and this guy still wanted to talk to her, he couldn’t be so bad. His abs didn’t hurt his case, either.
The phone vibrated a third time.
I scrolled down to the rest of the texts, all from the same number. There were six of them, and I opened the first:
Check the Channel 3 news. You didn’t listen, and you didn’t save her.
The second and third and fourth—all said the same thing.
My heart palpitated. I switched on the news. Across the bottom, the scroll read:
Unnamed Teen Girl Found Dead Near Ninth Street.
All the warm and gooey feelings I’d had thinking of Liam and his ocean-blue eyes evaporated. A girl was dead. And it was my fault.
Something hardened in my chest. Like a cocoon had wrapped itself around my heart. And the darkness I’d worked so hard to dispel after losing Dad filled my mind. Guilt, sadness, anger, and despair all swarmed inside.
A normal person would cry at a time like this. Go running to Momma, to my dad’s “trusted” friends at SWAT, and plead for mercy and help. But I was never normal, and definitely not in the mood for pleading. I was in the mood to find out who was doing this to me. And why.
I replied to the message:
Who are you?
Ten seconds later, the message came back undelivered.
I chucked off my comforter and slid to my knees beside my bed. No, not to pray. To reach underneath my box spring. I felt for the handles of my locked chest, pulled it out, and lined up the numbers of the combination until it clicked open. I hadn’t opened the chest in weeks, foolishly trying to forget that it existed.
I rummaged through the case files I’d copied off my mom’s desk until I found my notebook. I preferred paper notes just in case—I knew from my mom’s trials that nothing digital ever disappears. And I wasn’t going to be one of those defendants dumb enough to Google “how to catch a killer.” No, I could easily burn these notes if I had to. And I always used my dad’s computer for hacking into official criminal databases and evidence logs. I even had his access codes to get into higher-level police files. They were all neatly written on a laminated card he kept “safe” in his safe. Stupid bureaucracy hadn’t even managed to shut down his accounts yet.
Thumbing through pages of comments, charts, and surveillance logs, I ran my finger over the name of each predator I’d been secretly following. All five of them—aka my Filthy Five. LeMarq was the first one I’d set my sights on.
The wind howled outside my window, and the branches of the orange tree scratched at the glass. I checked to make sure no one was there. Of course not—the creepy scraping noise was just part of a normal SoCal morning storm, not someone messing with my mind. Definitely not the spirit of the girl I should have saved.
The condensation from the night’s rain on the windowpane distorted the world outside. And the images on the television next to the window distorted my world inside.
Television crews lined the Ninth Street crime scene. For some morbid reason, they kept replaying the coroner wheeling out the black body bag. I had never hated my high-def flat screen so much. At the moment, I didn’t exactly want to “feel like I was there.”
The police hadn’t released the girl’s identity yet, so the news team resorted to zooming in on the moment when the wind picked up and an unzipped portion of the body bag rose, revealing a blonde head. As the reporter went wild with excited speculation on who the victim might be, I couldn’t help but wonder why they had to look like me, and what this guy was trying to tell me.
I felt like going on TV myself and warning every blonde-haired, gray-eyed girl in California to stay inside until I figured this out. But surely Detective Martinez or one of his chest-beating cohorts would see a pattern, and the public would be alerted to the profile of the victims. Or maybe the zombie media would figure it out on their own.
I could only hope the police didn’t disclose my involvement. If they found out, the press’s cycle of harassment would start all over again. A slimy paparazzo named Sammy tirelessly followed me around after Dad’s death—he liked to call me the number-one victim of that senseless murder. More like I was the number-one victim of Sammy’s invasion of privacy and national-exploitation tour.
I heard Mom stirring downstairs. Most likely making herself a pot of coffee, working on her usual three hours of sleep a night. I couldn’t afford her barging in, and I certainly didn’t want to talk to her about another death. I had to get out of here and find a safe place to gather my thoughts—alone.
The Pier.
I grabbed what I needed, and restashed all the evidence against me. After stuffing my notebook in my backpack and kicking my pirate’s chest back under the bed, I headed to my bathroom to brush my hair and teeth.
I tried not to pay too much attention to that sickly looking girl in the mirror. Instead, I tried to look past her, to the open window, where I knew my spo
t under the Pier and its fresh after-rain breeze waited to wash away the dark lines and puffy skin around my eyes. But just the thought of puffy eyes made me think of my mom (not because we look anything alike, because we don’t) and her admission of guilt in her office yesterday.
As I began to make progress on the rat’s nest I sometimes called hair, I also wondered why she hadn’t come up to see me last night. She said she would get dinner and we’d “talk some more.” Typical Jane Rose. All promises—no follow-through.
Maybe, so she would start to care more about me than her career, I should start campaigning for Bill Brandon and leaking information to his campaign muckety-mucks on her inability to keep promises. The days of family breakfasts in bed and picnics at the beach had ceased well before we lost Dad. Right about the same time that she formally declared her ambition to run for District Attorney the first time, she unofficially stopped being a wife and mother.
I slammed down my brush a little harder than I intended to and frowned at the state I was in. Hardly my finest hour in the looks department. Even after a little mascara and blush, I still didn’t want to see the girl in the mirror. Not even my mom’s old pageant tricks of making myself “look better in order to feel better” were working. I needed a few moments with my oldest and dearest friend: Gladys—aka my shoe closet.
I rounded the corner of my bathroom and opened the door to the other “wing” of my bedroom. Clicking the light switch on, I watched the heavenly fluorescent light shine luminously on her walls. Happy to see me, too, Gladys and all her Pips stood at attention for my entry—except for my tan Dolce & Gabbana Catwoman boots, which had to be neatly hung to avoid damage or creases. I had to take care of my Sleeping Beauties.
“Gladys, I need help.” My words echoed into the space. Sometimes it really paid to be an only child. This room had been meant for my sister or brother, but when they never happened, Dad knocked down a wall to give me a playroom. I was never really into toys—just shoes. I know. Weird. Dr. T told my mom I would likely grow out of it. No such luck. Dad thought it was funny. Mom thought it was expensive—but better than guns. And how could she blame me? She’s the one who’d taught me everything I knew about high-fashion footwear. Shoes were “our” thing. Or at least they used to be.
“I’m going to the beach—and then to sucky school—but I need to be able to move,” I said as if Gladys might talk back.
I walked around the shelves Dad had handcrafted just for me and the Pips, until I found them. My Juicy Couture Platino Metallic Gladiator Sandals named Hermes. I plucked them off the shelf and took them back to my room to get dressed, throwing on some yellow leggings, a Roxy hoodie, and my Spy sunglasses. I knew there was no sun, but like my shoes, they provided emotional support.
I slung my backpack over my shoulder and took a deep breath. A Courage Breath for the day—I didn’t ignore everything Dr. T taught me.
Now I just had to sneak out without Hawkeye Jane catching me. I slithered down the stairs, into the garage, and into Big Black. For the quickest escape, I hit the garage-door opener at the same time as the ignition. It was already 6:00 a.m., and I only had eighty minutes before school started.
After sitting in the dry sand under the Pier for fifteen minutes, no effective thinking had taken place. Instead, I watched the light shift over the pink-and-purple horizon. Surfers lined up for their turns on the larger than usual sets rolling in. I hadn’t surfed since Dad had died. It was our thing. And I missed it.
We’d sit out past the break waiting for the waves, and he’d tell me stories about combat as a Marine. About how hard it was to come back from the atrocities he’d witnessed as a soldier abroad. About the dangers still looming at home. About the line between right and wrong.
He’d called this beach his shoreline. He wanted to believe that—whatever he did—he’d always make it home, back to what was sure. His sure things included his integrity, his country, his freedom. His very own shoreline.
He was a broken record about me finding my own shoreline, about preparing myself for the moments in life when I’d be tested. There were times when his training and instruction felt like he was dragging me out into the deep waters of what my mom not-so-affectionately called his Post-Traumatic Stress Paranoia. Both in his time as a Marine and a police officer, he witnessed violence that most people can’t even stand to watch on TV. So her words had merit, especially in the year leading up to his death. But now—his warnings and preparations didn’t seem so crazy. In fact, it seemed like he might have known something (or someone) was coming.
Which made me wonder where my shoreline was anymore.
I grabbed my notebook and began OCD-organizing what was on my mind.
Problem 1: A girl is dead because I didn’t respect the warning. I let her die.
Dilemma 2: Whoever lured me to LeMarq is still toying with me. Trying to torment me. Or kill me.
Predicament 3: I lied to the police about following LeMarq, and somehow Detective Martinez knows it. If he finds proof of my strange stalking habits, he’ll argue that the LeMarq shooting was not, in fact, “legally justified.” He’ll claim that I had malice aforethought, intent, and motive—and that it was murder in the first degree.
Disaster 4: My mom cheated on my dad—with the one man in a position to take me down!
Mess 5: Mom’s campaign opponent, Bill Brandon, is on a witch hunt to destroy the whole Rose family, and he doesn’t mind using me to do it.
Catastrophe 6: I am a killer.
“Ruby!” A voice jerked my nose out of my notebook. “Hey, Ruby.”
I looked up to find a half-naked Liam Slater jogging toward me through the sand with a surfboard under his arm.
This had to be some kind of psychotic delusion. Like my subconscious desires had fought to the surface. Or maybe I’d watched one too many episodes of vampire shows with shirtless immortals.
“I was hoping I’d see you here today,” Liam said, a little out of breath. His unzipped wet suit hung dangerously low on his waist, exposing the muscular V-line in his hips that most girls would pay good money to see. His shaggy hair dripped salt water over his bronzed and chiseled eight-pack. Suddenly, I had a new problem—
Crisis 7: Acting like a total idiot in front of Liam Slater.
“I never heard back from you,” he said as he sat down next to me. “Are you OK?”
“You hoped to see me? What made you think I’d be here?” I asked, semiviolently shutting my notebook like it contained national secrets.
“I’ve seen you out here before,” he clarified. “My boys and I hit this spot before school occasionally for a session, and I’ve seen you here a few times deep in thought. I just never got the guts to actually come over and talk before.”
“Really?”
“Really what?” he asked with a half smile.
“Really, you surf here? Really, you’ve seen me here? Really, you didn’t have the guts to talk to me?” I was shocked by all three implications. Sure, I could be shortsighted and socially unplugged sometimes, but I couldn’t have missed him.
He laughed, and I couldn’t help but notice his perfectly straight white teeth against his sun-kissed face.
“I know we’ve goofed around in class, and said ‘hey’ in the halls and stuff, but you’re sort of intimidating,” he said. I could have sworn the sun came out just to do that shiny, sparkly thing off his teeth.
“I don’t think intimidating is the right word,” I said. “Maybe unrelatable…my therapist says I’m unrelatable.” Why was I telling him I had a therapist?
“Oh…kay, unrelatable, unreachable, unattainable, sure.” He looked over at me with raised eyebrows and a suppressed laugh. Seriously, dudes shouldn’t have such long eyelashes. “You hit your head pretty hard yesterday. I hope you’re OK.”
“Did I?” I asked. I honestly didn’t remember. Physical pain hardly ever bothered me. I’d gotten good at ignoring bumps and bruises.
“Right here,” he said, reaching up to stroke my hair
where my head had hit the floor. Now that he was touching it, that spot felt tender. But in this moment, I thanked the injury for giving me a rare moment of physical contact. Mom hadn’t hugged me in years, and Dad’s physical expressions of love (since I’d become a teen) consisted of sparring matches and pats on the head. In general, I’d always been pretty successful at keeping people within carefully controlled parameters. Even Alana had to hammer past my aversion to touch—what Dr. T said was part of my autophobia, or fear of abandonment. Which of course got ten times worse when my father was murdered.
But this uninvited touch from Liam? I didn’t hate it.
“It doesn’t hurt,” I said, eyes down, blood pressure up.
“That’s good.” It took him a few strung-out beats before he lowered his hand. “Listen, I wanted to tell you something.”
“OK, shoot,” I said awkwardly. Not my best choice of words.
“Well, I don’t want to come across as a creepy stalker kind of guy.” He played with the damp sand in his hands. “But yesterday at the art fair…I noticed this guy. Well, a man. He was watching you.”
“What?” I sat up taller. “What kind of man? A teacher?”
“No, I don’t think he was a teacher. I would’ve seen him around school before. He was definitely out of place. He was watching you in an intense sort of way, and it was weird. I didn’t like it.”
Had he seen Martinez, too? Maybe I wasn’t going crazy.
“What did he look like?” I asked, heart racing in a new way now.
“He was wearing a dark suit. No tie or anything, but a sort of athletic build, good-looking—like an older George Clooney kind of look.” He grabbed a piece of kelp and crushed a bulb between his fingers.
Killing Ruby Rose (The Ruby Rose Series) Page 6