Killing Ruby Rose (22 page)

He was losing consciousness.

“I told your mother not to do it. I told her to come clean. But how could
…
we have
…
known it would
…
come to this?” His body tensed up with a sudden shaking fit to match the tremors inside me. What had my mother done to bring this on us all?

As I tried to find the source of the bleeding, the metallic scent of blood and the scent of smoke grew even stronger. My eyes watered, my nose stung, and the glands in the back of my throat tickled—that feeling right before a vicious upchucking attack. A section of his flesh had been ripped open on his forearm, right where his Marine tattoo used to be. The same tattoo my dad had.

I watched Martinez struggle for breath, and some intangible part of me ripped as well. As much as I had hated him, I now felt stirrings of compassion and regret. I didn’t want him to die.

“Hold on,” I pleaded. “Help is on the way.”

I looked up at Liam, now leaning over Martinez’s body, and our eyes met. Through the darkness, I could see the fear in his expression. Did this remind him of the night his dad had cut open his head with a beer bottle?

I wanted to reach out and calm him, but my hands were bloodied, and I started coughing. Then it hit me. I looked around—black smoke was blowing our way.

Fire.

“I’m going up to 4E—you stay with him,” I said to Liam.

“No, you can’t…” Liam trailed off as Martinez gasped in pain. “Ruby, the police will be here soon, just wait.”

“If she’s in there, it will be too late,” I said, letting go of Martinez.

Clutching the key in my bloody hand, I bolted to find Dr. T.

From the center of the courtyard I scanned the six surrounding two-story buildings for the right apartment. It wasn’t hard to find—flames behind the windows, not to mention the billowing smoke emerging out the open door, was a pretty good indication of which apartment would be 4E.

I scaled the staircase and covered my nose with the sleeve of my hoodie as the thickening smoke nearly knocked me out of my resolve.

Once through the door, I tried to orient myself among the flames. At the far end of the room, a large metal cage contained what looked like two lifeless bodies. The surging nausea rose again, but this time it had nothing to do with the smoke.

I urged my feet forward. I had no time to close my eyes and try to overcome my stupid psychotic fear of bars. I had to get to the bodies before the flames did, or we’d all die. Black smoke surrounded me. Dancing on the ceiling. Climbing up the walls. Suffocating everything—including a photo of a girl on the wall.

The same girl from the sketch at the art fair. What?

No, I couldn’t think about that now. Another coughing fit hit me. I fell to the ground, aching for oxygen, desperate for clear thought.

Then I saw Dr. T. She was one of the bodies in the cage, blindfolded and duct taped. I crawled to the cage and searched for the lock that matched my key, but I couldn’t find it. Tears in my eyes made it even harder to see—a pure physical reaction to the smoke.

Finally, I found a clunky metal lock and slipped the old key in. It clicked and turned, and the barred door swung open. I forced myself inside—reminding myself that I’d beaten the cage before and could do it again. I pulled Dr. T’s limp body over and saw something written on the duct tape covering her mouth: “SECRETS.” What the hell was that supposed to mean? I checked her pulse—it was slow but steady.

I didn’t want to, but I reached for the other body, too. Eyes stinging and lungs closing up, I pulled on his shirt. It was definitely number four—Roger Vay, the Key Killer, with the same gray tape, same message: “SECRETS.”

There was no way I could get them both out before the flames consumed us. Silver was making me choose. Making me condemn one to death.

I grabbed Dr. T’s arms and wrapped them around my neck as I crawled out onto the green shaggy carpet. Once outside the cage, I dragged her by the shoulders with every ounce of strength I had left, trying to locate the door. The smoke was too dense, the flames too high, my legs too weak. As I searched for the way out, a flame seared through my cloth Toms. Of all my precious shoes, these had to be the most flammable.

The flapping flames framed the exit. Desperate for oxygen, I had no more time to think. I called on my last shreds of adrenaline and strength to pick up Dr. T and sling her over my shoulder. My knees almost buckled, but I steadied myself for the five seconds I needed to burst through the doorframe. I collapsed as soon as I sensed fresh air.

We were outside the apartment at least.

“Liam!” I screamed, coughing up a lung. “Help!” My head felt like it wasn’t my own. I was disoriented and barely alive—I felt like I was choking to death. If I just lay my head down here, maybe it would feel better. Maybe Liam would come and we’d be OK.

A blanket of cool air swept over my body as I drifted in and out of consciousness. In a distant corner of my mind I was no longer in danger. I was weightless and free. I thought I was in the ocean, lying flat on my longboard. With the sun on my back, I let my arms dangle in the water. I heard my dad’s voice in the distance, gently calling my name. The current was taking me toward him…

A jarring pain stabbed through my chest, and a coughing fit brought me back to reality.

The last thing I felt was being carried away in the arms of a strong man.

The last thing I saw was the reflection of flames in the man’s eyes through the clear plastic shield of his black tactical helmet. Familiar eyes with an unfamiliar intensity.

The last thing I heard was my own voice screaming, “Wait, Dr. T!”

CHAPTER 23

Everything glowed too white. Too sterile.

I couldn’t keep my eyes open with all these fluorescent bulbs trying to blind me. I could barely breathe with whatever was strapped to my face. I couldn’t move with my arms bound.

Wait. I was tied up? Where was I?

I forced open my eyes to look down at the body that surely wasn’t mine, even though it was attached to my very dizzy, throbbing head. An atrocious gown covered my torso, and sandpapery white sheets covered my legs. I didn’t even want to think what kind of nasty wool socks covered my feet. I felt them scratching my heels, and that was enough to piss me off.

I jerked at the leather straps at my wrists and ankles, blinking wildly from light overexposure. My damn pupils stung like invisible fairies were taking archery practice on my eyeballs—

I had to be on drugs to be thinking like this.

The plastic mask covering my mouth felt sweaty and claustrophobic. I wanted it off. Now.

Was this some kind of torture room? Where was Liam? And Dr. T?

I closed my eyes and fought my restraints. I don’t think I meant to scream, but it sure sounded like my voice echoing off the white walls and beeping machines.

“Relax, honey, relax!” A voice caught me off guard—a sharp, authoritative voice, accompanied by soft, heavy hands. I stopped fighting long enough to find out who was brave enough to call me honey when I was in such a foul mood.

All I saw were huge boobs. Not the usual perky Hollywood implants, but enormous mounds of flesh.

“It’ll be better if you relax,” the sharp voice warned.

I slammed my head back against the pillow. Whoever this lady was, she meant business. She’d probably been hired to carry out the torture. I wouldn’t make it easy for her.

Step 1: Get free.

Step 2: Land a serious knee kick to her head. Striking her anywhere in her core would be like trying to punch Play-Doh. Hell, those breasts were as good as a bulletproof vest.

Step 3: Find clothes.

Step 4: Run!

Of course, this brilliant plan only had a chance if I could steady my breathing and get free. I didn’t need the beeping monitor to tell me my heart rate was dangerously high.

“I don’t want to have to increase your dose,” she said as she fussed with my straps, my mask, my sheets. “But you’re testing my patience.”

“Please, just tell me where I am and what is going on,” I said. But given the combo of not having spoken in who knows how long and the thick plastic mask covering my mouth, I doubted she understood. I lifted my thirty-pound bowling-ball head to plead with my eyes.

“I’m going to untie these wrist straps now,” she said with less attitude and more tenderness than I expected. “You’re going to be all right. Now that you’re awake, no more thrashing around, OK?” She moved in and started working on the ties. I prepared myself for the moment when I’d be free, heel kick her in the jaw, and escape this strange, sterile dungeon. I’d find Dr. T and carry her on my back if I had to—

“Oh, thank God.” A familiar voice came from outside the door. “She’s awake? Can I see her?”

My mom! Did Silver get her, too?

The door swung open and she was there, hurrying toward me.

A short, wrinkly man in a white coat materialized behind her, carrying no weapons as far as I could tell.

Beyond them, a tall figure moving in the doorway caught my eye—Sergeant Mathews. His square jaw was set tight, yet his dark eyes were soft. My drugged brain couldn’t make sense of how and why he was here.

Cool air tickled my wrists, telling me I was free. I wanted to rip the plastic mask off my face and bolt out of this white hell, but my mom’s fingers wrapped themselves around the place where the straps had just come off. Not free enough.

“Oh, Rue,” my mom said as she sat beside me and pulled down my mask. She looked unusually haggard and stressed. “I was so worried.”

“Mom, what’s going on?” I still wasn’t sure if I needed to protect the both of us.

“You gave us a scare there,” the wrinkly man said as he wobbled closer and nodded to excuse the woman I now understood was my nurse. “It’s been nearly two days since you came in here kicking and screaming.”

That made no sense. I didn’t remember that. Why didn’t I remember anything? Maybe that was why I was strapped down.

I searched my consciousness for a crack in the dam that held back my memories of when and how I got here.

“You suffered extreme smoke inhalation. We had to give you oxygen and keep you sedated so you could rest,” Dr. Wrinkles said, patting my foot through the sheets.

Smoke. Yes, I remembered the smoke. So much smoke.

Crack
.

“Luckily, you only have minor burns on your leg from the fire,” the doctor continued.

Fire, sure—where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

Crack, crack
.

“Give her a few more days, and your little heroine will be good as new,” he said to my mom.

Heroine? Who did I save?

Crack, crack, crack
.

The dam broke, and Dr. Teresa was behind it.

“Where is she?” I sat up tall in bed. “Dr. Teresa? Is she OK?”

“She’s fine,” my mom said, putting her thin hand on my knee. “She’s in a room down the hall.”

I exhaled in relief and went into a coughing fit.

“I have to go see her,” I said, starting to get up. “I need to talk to her.”

My mom’s grip tightened. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

I jerked away to climb toward the opposite side of the bed, but then I felt a sharp, pointy tug at my forearm. I looked down to find that a scary-looking IV connected me to the medical equipment lining the headboard. The thought of ripping it out made me dizzy and nauseated.

I held my head in my hands for a moment to fight the desire to dry heave. Another attack of the black lung made me double over the bed with a very unladylike hacking noise. Someone slid the plastic mask back over my face, and I concentrated on the cool, wet air replacing the painful darkness inside me.

I had no choice. I let my mom force me back in bed.

When my breathing steadied, I opened my eyes to find my mom standing at the foot of my bed. She had tears in her eyes. Not little ones or fake ones meant for TV, but real streaming tears.

“What is it, Mom?” I asked, pulling the mask away slightly.

“I need to tell you something,” she said, looking at me so hard it felt like she was looking through me.

My heart felt as weak as my lungs. What did she
need
to tell me now?

“OK,” I said, bracing myself.

Another tear spilled out, and she paused as if forming the words in her mouth pained her. “Detective Martinez is dead.”

Deep down I’d already known, but it did nothing to soften the blow.

I remembered talking to him, feeling his warm blood on my hands as I tried to stop the flow. I looked down at my hands, wondering if they were still stained.

I closed my burning eyes.

“Rue, there’s more,” she said, prompting me to reopen my eyes for another hit. I didn’t know if I could take it.

“The police found Liam with Martinez’s blood all over him.” She paused. “They’ve arrested him for murder.”

CHAPTER 24

It took another three days before they released me from the hospital. This time it wasn’t the IV or the coughing bouts confining me to bed—it was an armed officer standing at my door. My mom said the guard was there for my own protection, but it felt more like he was there for my own imprisonment.

Those three days seemed endless. I went over everything in my head again and again, trying to figure out what I could have done differently to keep Martinez from dying and Liam from going to prison. Where had I gone wrong? I needed to talk to my mother about my involvement in it all, but there was always someone else within hearing distance—a nurse, a doctor, a guard…

After telling me about Liam’s arrest, Mom had explained the investigators’ theory that he had set fire to the apartment complex to destroy evidence. That even though Liam’s motive for the murder was still unclear, his involvement was indisputable. And until he started cooperating with the investigation, he would continue to be the sole suspect. The more she explained, the more guilt wrapped around me—the reason he wasn’t “cooperating” was to protect me.

According to Jane, Liam was claiming ignorance. She rolled her eyes in exasperation and ran her hands through her hair when she recapped his side of the story in press conference bullet-point detail: “Martinez had been shot by an unknown third party, you and Liam went to his aid—hence the blood—you smelled smoke and went after Dr. Teresa, he’d tried to go after you, and someone knocked him out from behind. The next thing he knew a fireman was waking him up in the street outside the apartments.”

At the hospital, I’d mostly just listened while biting my tongue. But once we got home, I knew it was time to come clean. In order to plead Liam’s case, I had to tell Mom the truth. All of it. In the privacy of her office, I dropped every detail, spat out every fact. From me following Charlie LeMarq and the Filthy Five, to Silver’s messages and five forced murders, to going to Detective Martinez with the key.

I wasn’t sure she entirely believed me without any proof to back up my story. No bodies were ever found at any warehouse, harbor, or apartment complex. Well, except for Martinez’s—his burned corpse and gold chain were all that remained in the complex’s ashes.

I told her that Silver had to have been the one to knock out Liam. Of course he was. Stupid-ass Silver and his split personalities had done it again. This was his MO—set us up and then save our skins. But this time, he left evidence that tied Liam to Martinez’s murder. So why didn’t he just kill Liam like he did Martinez? Why ruin Liam’s life when he could take it?

When I brought up Martinez’s cryptic comments about me being brought “back to the beginning” and asked her what Martinez was talking about when he said he’d tried to warn her, she pleaded the fifth. When I showed her the picture of Silver from the art fair, she got that surly look on her face that meant she was going to take a coffee break, or a vodka break, or whatever other kind of break she needed to “think straight.”

I was used to her hiding things from me, just like she was used to me hiding things from her—but under these circumstances it felt unfair. As I opened up, she closed down. Again and again I asked what she knew, but she was a vault of secrets. And I
never
had the code.

It took nearly all day, several shouting matches, and a few intermittent silent treatments to get out my entire side of the story and answer all her questions. In the end, she hated me for it. I could see it all over her face—the way she grimaced as I shared the darkest details. She didn’t realize that I hated myself for it, too.

But I had to trust and believe she would exonerate Liam. This wasn’t just about me, or my family, anymore. Liam could be put away for the rest of his life just because he’d gotten involved with the wrong girl. I couldn’t let that happen. His mom and brothers needed him.

Silver was the one who needed to pay for his crimes, not me. And certainly not Liam.

Before I went to bed after our long day of disclosure (and nondisclosure), Mom stone-facedly assured me she’d take care of it. But I didn’t know how she
could
do it with the media working against her. Most of the news outlets, from the local paper to CNN, had already judged Liam guilty—sensationalizing the whole thing for their own profit. Despite the fact that the police hadn’t released even the most basic information from the crime scene (like the facts that Dr. T and the Key Killer were there at all), some of the nation’s best-known criminal defense attorneys were called in on prime-time television to discuss how bad it looked for not only Liam, but D. A. Jane Rose and her bid for reelection. They argued that the only reason I wasn’t in jail with Liam was because of the “abuse of her position.”

Everyone knew I had to be involved; they just didn’t know how. But with schmucky reporters like Sammy roaming around and opponents like Bill Brandon looking for dirt, it was only a matter of time before more damning discoveries were made.

But I believed in my mom’s ability to fix everything—she was powerful, influential, and had an uncanny ability to get what she wanted. I had to trust that she was keeping the police away from me for the right reasons. And yet I couldn’t help toying with the idea of storming into my dad’s old department to see Mathews, or into Martinez’s unit office and demanding that someone release Liam immediately as I revealed the details needed to exonerate him. Surely my sworn testimony would provide immediate proof of his innocence. But every time I thought through that scenario, I saw myself cuffed and escorted to a padded cell where I’d wait until Jane could come parading in to save me.

If worse came to worst, I was prepared to confess to Martinez’s murder myself. I figured the probability of me going to prison for life was already so high that tacking on another murder to my rap sheet hardly mattered.

While Liam had been detained for six days now, the press was lined up and down our street, turning our house into my own personal detention center. Closed curtains, locked doors, and complete isolation. I roamed the house with a frenzied tension that became more unbearable by the second.

The only human contact I’d had all day was when my mom came into my room this morning. She stood at the foot of my bed and cleared her throat to wake me up.

“Ruby, I shouldn’t have to say this, but I am going to make it abundantly clear. Don’t do anything
stupid
today. Don’t leave this house and don’t talk to anyone. The two guards stationed outside will inform me if you try. Do you understand?”

Barely awake, I nodded.

When I sat up to face her, she was already gone, leaving me in the wake of her Chanel No. 5 perfume. It was like I had taken the role of one of her desperate clients—and she had taken the role of my distant high-powered attorney.

She didn’t even say good-bye or reassure me that it would all be OK. Not that I expected her to. But that didn’t mean that I’d forgotten the days when she did.

Now, I sat on the stairs and clutched my phone, wondering when my mom would call to give me an update. A shred of info, a scrap of hope. I’d already called her four times with no answer.

I scrolled down my contact list until I saw my backup mom’s name—Mother Teresa. I hit “Send” knowing I wasn’t supposed to talk to anyone today, but Dr. T probably wouldn’t answer anyway. She’d blocked me at every turn. She left the hospital before I was granted permission to leave my room. And she hadn’t answered one of my calls or texts since. Whatever her “SECRETS” were, she was hanging on to them like they were still duct taped inside. She had to know something that would help Liam’s case, but she was staying silent. The call went to her voicemail, and I hung up.

I considered writing a letter to Liam, telling him how sorry I was. But what was I going to say?
Sorry I got you framed for the murder of a police officer. I hope your family’s hearts aren’t broken and that Tug doesn’t cry himself to sleep at night. Oh, and I trust the guards aren’t beating you too badly.

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.”