He didn’t belong in there. He belonged out here with me. Except, I worried he would finally come to his senses and decide to distance himself from me entirely. I wouldn’t blame him, but I would miss him more than I wanted to admit. I ran a finger over my lips, remembering the last time we kissed. The taste of him was gone, but the memory of him would last much longer. Maybe forever.
I scrolled down to the next favorite on my contacts list—Alana. I pressed “Send” knowing she wouldn’t answer, either, but just hearing her voice on her outgoing message made me feel connected to her again:
Aloha, you’ve reached Alana. I’m either at the beach, at the mall, or…at the beach. Leave a message at the beep.
Instead of hanging up, I inexplicably started to cry. Right there on her voicemail. My voice cracked as I tried to say, “I miss you.” It cracked again as I sobbed, “I really need you.” And then my heart cracked along with my voice as I begged, “Please call me back.”
I hung up wondering what I’d just done. I’d never been the pathetic, pleading kind of girl. After all that time of pushing Alana away, all I wanted was her friendship back. As I held my head in my hands—ashamed as well as alone—I tried not to admit to myself that all my “irrational fears of abandonment” had been realized.
I was completely on my own. Just like Liam would be for “twenty-five to life” if my mom didn’t pull a miracle out of her hat.
Out of complete desperation, I went to the family room and turned on the TV, flipping through the local news channels to see if my mom was being interviewed. The last few days I’d been avoiding the news like the plague, imagining all sorts of terrible headlines.
“Ruby the Death Rose—Involved in Yet Another Murder”
“Ruby Rose: Hot Damsel in Distress or Cold Psychopathic Killer?”
“Incumbent D. A. Jane Rose Drops Twenty Points in the Polls to Bill Brandon—Wayward Child to Blame”
Instead, what I saw made my heart plunge with sorrow. Coverage of Detective Martinez’s funeral service showed huge crowds of uniformed police officers, decorated Marines, and hundreds of civilians dressed in black among the flags and flowers. So much sadness, so much pain. A fresh set of tears came to my eyes, and I wiped them away with both hands like windshield wipers, remembering my dad’s funeral. The sight was so morbidly similar.
With a dark emptiness in my chest, I wondered whether Dad would’ve been there today. Had he and Martinez really put the past behind them? In any case, I should have been there. I should’ve been standing there next to his family, telling them the truth of what happened.
And then I spotted my mom at the head of the procession, walking through the graveyard with two Latina women. One was older, like grandma old. And the other was young, like my age or a few years younger. She looked vaguely familiar. Some part of me felt like I knew them. Martinez’s mom and daughter, perhaps?
They were followed by Sergeant Mathews, who I didn’t even realize knew Martinez. But there he was. At six foot six, he looked more like an NBA center than a cop. Then, of course, Bill Brandon and his perfect hair and teeth came strolling in last with his entourage.
I watched it for as long as I could. When the commentators came back on and began smearing Liam, I switched the channel. I couldn’t watch anything anymore.
I paced up and down the staircase like a caged animal, trying to figure out how Silver had pulled this off. Even when I’d thought I was being clever with the license plate clue, he’d seen it coming and used it to lure me into another kill. He punished me for getting Detective Martinez involved with the cell phone tower signals by killing him and framing Liam for it. I wanted to run but had nowhere to go. And even if I had a destination in mind, two guards were stationed outside my house.
My heart was practically beating out of my chest—not only from climbing the stairs over and over again, but also from a growing sense of claustrophobia. I stopped at the top of the stairs and looked out the one window that wasn’t blinded by drapes, the half circle of glass above the entryway. All I could see were blue skies, palm trees swaying—and an angel, walking up the driveway. A brown-skinned angel dressed in Daisy Dukes with a bright yellow flower in her hair.
Alana.
I rushed down the stairs and opened the door before she even had a chance to reach the front steps. She stopped when she saw me and cocked her head sideways with a Don’t jump on me look.
Too bad.
I ran and threw my arms around her. I couldn’t care less that the guards were probably freaking out about my unauthorized exit.
“I’m so sorry, Ruby,” she said as she nuzzled into my neck. “I’ve been the worst friend ever. I just got your message. I totally sucketh—”
“Stop. You don’t suck,” I assured her. “You’re here.”
“I heard about Liam and that Detective. I just can’t believe it.”
“I know.” I pulled back to face her. “Don’t believe it, because it’s not true. Come on, let’s get in the house before those paparazzi leeches get any more ammunition. You never know if your butt will make the front page tomorrow.”
“You think so?” she asked, sounding flattered. “It could be the start of my butt-modeling career.”
“Miss Rose,” Buff Security Guy Number 1 said, blocking the entrance. “We don’t have clearance for anyone but you to enter the premises.”
“Yeah, well, she’s coming in whether you like it or not. She’s my best friend. So go ahead and try to stop us.”
Buff Guy Number 1 gave Buff Guy Number 2 a nervous glance.
“What are you going to do? Fight me?” I led Alana through the two of them and grabbed the front door. “Call Warden Jane if you want. We’ll be inside.”
Slam—that felt good.
As soon as we got to my room, Alana handed me a thick stack of papers.
“Your makeup work,” she said. “Well, most of it. I actually got this two days ago and was going to bring it over yesterday, but I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me.”
“Oh my gosh, thanks.” I wasn’t allowed to go back to school until this was all “cleared up.” Not just my lungs, but the allegations piling up around me. But if there was a chance I could still graduate with perfect grades, I’d take it. I plopped it all down on my desk before joining Alana on my bed.
“So,” she said warily, her eyes roaming the room as if looking for body parts.
“Look, Alana, thanks for coming. I know how complicated all this is, and there’s probably nothing I can say to explain—”
“Then don’t,” she broke in. “You don’t have to explain anything to me. I only came to make sure you’re OK. I see your picture on the news. I hear your name in the halls. Everyone has a theory on your involvement with another murder. They’re saying the craziest things. Like you put Liam up to killing that cop, that maybe you had something to do with your own dad’s death.”
Ouch.
“That you’re going to go after me next,” Alana continued. “And I just couldn’t take it anymore. I almost punched Taylor in her big ol’—”
“Oh, I am so sure, Alana,” I said. “You and what army? I won’t be there to back you up, so don’t go getting yourself into any trouble because of me.” I couldn’t bear to think of putting Alana in any more danger. All I had ever wanted to do was protect her. Even from that first day on the playground when I found her crying in the corner.
“I’m really worried about you, Rue,” she said, looking me directly in the eyes. “Things just seem to go from bad to worse. When is it going to stop?”
“I don’t know.” My shoulders slumped. “Maybe never. Honestly, I don’t see me coming out of this one unscathed, Alana. There’s too much I can’t explain. And my mom…” I searched for the words to describe the great divide between us. “I don’t know if she’s going to be able to stop me from going to prison for a very long time. Even if she wanted to.”
“What are you talking about?” Alana tipped my chin up to face her. “Who is
this person sitting here? And what have you done with Ruby Rose?”
“It’s not that simple. My mom promised me she’d help exonerate Liam, but then behind my back she seems intent on using him as a scapegoat for Detective Martinez’s murder. I’m getting desperate. I’m almost to the point of confessing myself even though I didn’t do it. I swear, Alana, the man responsible for this is the same guy who made me kill LeMarq and…” I stopped there. I didn’t need to bring up the laundry list of other bad dudes I’d killed.
“Shut up, I know you guys couldn’t have done it,” she said. “Not only do I believe you, Ruby, but I believe in you.”
“But it’s not over. He’s going to find a way to lure me out again. I can’t stop him, he’s too smart—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa—have you forgotten how freakishly brilliant you are? You are smarter than this guy. You are totally capable of beating him. And you don’t have to rely on your flaky mom to do it.”
Alana didn’t get it. She didn’t have all the facts. She was too naive and ignorant of the truth to understand that even if my mom came through on Liam, I couldn’t let all those murders (that Alana didn’t even know about) get swept under the rug. No amount of her Rah-Rah-Ruby cheerleading would change the fact that I would eventually have to confess to having killed these men, and my story was too unbelievable for redemption.
“You don’t understand.”
“Stop it, Ruby.” She raised her voice and grabbed my hand. “Stop it with your glass-half-empty bull-crap. All is not lost. Your dad, Mr. Badass Jack Rose, didn’t train you for all those years so you could give up.”
“My dad?” I sat a little straighter at the mention of his name.
“That’s right. Don’t forget what he taught you. I used to think he was psycho—the way he made you his little Barbie Soldier. Turns out, he was psychic or something. He must’ve known this could happen.”
I stared out the window, digesting her totally un-naive, non-ignorant wisdom. I had underestimated my incredibly loyal best friend, just like I’d underestimated Liam.
“He wouldn’t let you give up, and neither will I. So tell me you’re going to fight,” Alana demanded.
The strength of my dad’s soul surged inside me. Memories of us sitting on our surfboards past the break came crashing back. Days at the shooting range and nights at the dojo. It was true: My dad wanted me to be ready. He prepared me for the time my shoreline would be tested. I’m sure he never imagined it would be quite like this. But he knew someone was a threat to his family. He’d made sure I was strong enough, smart enough, and prepared enough to endure it.
And in all that time, he never let me hang my head.
So I lifted it. “I promise, I’ll fight.”
And suddenly, I knew exactly how to do it.
CHAPTER 25
Before Alana left, I assured her that if my plan didn’t work, I unofficially bequeathed my shoe collection to her. In the meantime, we agreed that it would be best for her to keep her distance. She needed no further convincing of how dangerous it was to be my friend. Maybe one day soon we’d get back to working on our tans together.
But for now, I knew what had to be done: Get to Filthy number five—Mr. Stanley Violet—before Silver did. Or at least before Silver put me in the impossible position of killing him. I needed to warn him that if he did what Silver said, he would end up like the other four. I needed to make Violet my ally, not my victim. I needed him to help me not kill him.
Ha, I was insane. I was about to sneak out of my nice safe home and go looking for a rapist to convince him to help me. Real smart, Ruby. Best idea ever.
“Oh shut up,” I said to my inner self, then went upstairs to get ready.
Within fifteen minutes, I had my mom’s minigun holstered under my hoodie, my butterfly blade in The Cleave—and I’d scrawled a note to my mom:
I’m sorry that I did something “stupid,” but I just couldn’t sit here. I went to see the last man on my list, Stanley Violet. If I don’t come back, you’ll know where to start looking for me.
I left it on my desk, not hers, just in case I got back before her and she didn’t need to know.
I cracked my window and threw the hook of my dad’s Ranger Rappelling Rope around the tree branch nearest me. I’d done this kind of thing before at the SWAT training center, and once on a NorCal camping trip with Dad’s team (including Mathews), I’d done it down the face of a mountain.
The adrenaline kicked in as I gripped the rope with gloved hands and steadied myself outside of the sill. I shut the window behind me and let myself down little by little, using my feet to slow the descent. I hit the ground softly with the balls of my feet and tugged at the rope from a 45-degree angle to get it to slide off the branch right. But it didn’t. The line was stuck on something. I couldn’t just leave the rope dangling. Soon one of the guards would make his rounds back here and see it.
I only had one other option since I didn’t have time to climb the tree and untie it. I had to throw the rest of the rope back up into the branches and hope the guards didn’t look up.
When I heard a man cough, I chucked the rope like it was a viper and ran. This time I’d thought ahead and was wearing my Dr. Martens combat boots—aka The Doctors.
I tore across the yard and jumped the wall behind my house. No paparazzi hanging out back here. Good thing, because the way I was dressed—black skinny jeans, black boots, black hoodie, my mom’s little black gun hiding in my black shoulder holster—didn’t speak highly of my intentions. I wasn’t going to church, that’s for sure.
Dr. Fenton, the anesthesiologist who lived behind us, had a Ducati motorcycle my dad drooled over. He used to tease my mom that one day she’d have to bail him out of jail for stealing it because “Dr. Brilliant” always left the keys in the ignition. Little did he know it would be me doing the stealing.
I padded around the Fentons’ gazebo and pool waterfall, making sure not to be seen, and I slid into the dark garage. I flipped the switch to find not just one shiny beast, but four—all lined up.
The red Harley Davidson, the blue Kawasaki, the silver BMW, or the black Ducati. After a full minute of needless indecision, I chose the Ducati in memory of my dad (and to match my outfit). I found a shiny-charcoal helmet that fit well enough and tucked my braided ponytail inside.
To avoid the roar of the engine, I walked the bike out until I hit an overgrown patch of ivy on the side driveway. Then I turned her on and thought about a few dirt-biking trips with my dad to remember how to make her go. Soon, I was peeling out in the direction of Mr. Violet’s video game lair twenty miles down the Pacific Coast Highway.
The wind felt cleansing as it whisked past me at 90 miles per hour. For a while, the adrenaline erased everything. The emptiness and regret for a life without my father. The sadness for Martinez and his grieving family. The frustration toward my mom and her silent evasion. The guilt for Liam alone in his eight-by-eight cell. All of it was temporarily replaced with blind speed and mindless exhilaration. Until I realized that getting pulled over for a simple speeding ticket could set off a disastrous chain of events.
I slowed down and tried to focus, finally exiting the highway and turning onto a private drive right up the cove. Didn’t need GPS directions for this one—I’d been here before.
A while ago, I’d followed Mr. Violet back here after a gamer conference he’d attended in San Diego. I’d watched him with binoculars, waiting for the moment he’d pull someone out of the trunk of his Ferrari. But when it never happened, I went home.
This time, I wouldn’t be going home until we’d had our little chat. I knew he would recognize me, and at a minimum be curious why the infamous Ruby Rose was on his doorstep.
Not to sell Girl Scout cookies. Certainly not in this getup.
I slowed down and parked the Ducati in a patch of oleander bushes two houses away, hanging the helmet on the handlebar. Violet’s place was too secure to sneak up on him, and I had no time for any drawn-out tactics
. Instead, I was going to walk right up and ring the doorbell.
Over the cobblestone drive, through the ivy-clad entryway, and under the portcullis into the courtyard. Two large wreaths hung on the double doors, but instead of red ribbons or holly berries, the painted black sprigs boasted a silver snake and miniature swords. Where’d he buy this—HolidayDecorationsForCreeps.com?
I looked down to make sure that if I rang the bell there wasn’t some booby trap under my feet that would land me in his dungeon forever.
A video intercom sprang to life before I could touch anything. Violet’s shiny face leered down at me from a screen on the pillar.
“Who are you? What do you want?” His voice sliced through the speakers, surrounding me like I was in a cave.
“My name’s Ruby Rose. I need to talk to you,” I said, checking that my gun was still there. “It’s a matter of life and death.” That was the first time I’d ever used that clichéd phrase, and it was actually true.
He paused, and I heard the tapping of a keyboard. It sounded like he was playing one of his video games. Or maybe he was using face-recognition software to confirm my identity. Or putting in the command for his portcullis to fall and trap me—who has a portcullis anyway? This was Orange County, not Scotland circa 1400 AD.
“Ruby Rose, eh? Whose life and death are we talking about?”
“Yours.” I tried not to blink.
Another pause. He started typing again, and I braced for what he might do. He could send a 911 text and have my own dad’s SWAT team come take me out.
Instead, the remote-controlled double doors swung open. “Then by all means, come in.”
As soon as I crossed the threshold, Violet rounded the corner and held out his small hand to formally introduce himself like a perfect gentleman—which I knew he most definitely was not.
His moist fingers wrapped around my hand, and it felt like I was being forced to shake tentacles with a dead octopus. It took everything I had not to throw him and his greasy ponytail into one of his antique swords and make him feel the pain he’d forced on too many innocent girls. I would have if it didn’t involve touching more of his skin.
Killing Ruby Rose (The Ruby Rose Series) Page 22