Killing Ruby Rose (23 page)

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.

“Come.” He motioned for me to join him in a strange sitting room full of skulls and serpents. “May I offer you something to drink?”

Yeah, so he could drug me and make me more
compliant
. “I don’t think so.”

All the windows were covered in black curtains, blocking out any late-afternoon light. I had to get this over with—and get out of here as soon as possible.

“Listen, I need your help,” I said, hating the taste of the words on my tongue. “And you need mine.”

“Oh…
kay
,” he said, awkwardly sitting down on a claw-like couch—the back rose up in four sharp talons, so it seemed like any minute he could be crushed within his own living room. “Help with what, exactly?”

I took a long breath, searching for the best way to answer. “Your life in is danger, and I want to protect you.”

“Right.” He released a stifled laugh that was tinged with nervousness. He was scared of me. And the poorly concealed pistol in his track pants didn’t seem to make him feel any better.

I paused, seeking the line between telling him as little as possible (to prevent him from going to the police with any information), and as much as possible (to prevent Silver from pulling off the fifth kill by my hand).

“Has anyone contacted you lately about ‘product’ you may be interested in?” I asked.

“Listen, Ruby—may I call you Ruby?”

“That’s fine,” I lied. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

“OK, Ruby, I know who you are.” He pulled at the hem of his thin V-neck to expose scar tissue on his shoulder. “After all, it was your sharpshooting dad who gave me this.”

He stared at me like I owed him an apology.

“You deserved it,” I assured him.

“So is that why you’re here? To give me what I deserve?”

“I told you, I’m here to help you. I swear.”

“Help me like you helped that LeMarq fellow? With a bullet between the eyes?” He placed a pale forefinger to his oily brow, as if I needed a visual.

I clenched my jaw and decided to respond in kind. “OK, Mr. Violet, here’s the truth, plain and simple: Someone has been setting me up to take out
killers
.” I watched his eyes flinch. “I don’t know who’s doing this to me, and I’m not even sure why. But I do know that you’re next.”

I took a few steps toward him to make sure he understood me with perfect clarity. “He is going to try to make me kill you, and I
don’t
want to do that.”

A twisting silence slithered between us while he absorbed the truth. He stared through me with the eyes of a racked soul.

My head swiveled around just in case someone else was here. I put my hand inside my hoodie to grip my gun.

“Yes, someone has contacted me,” he finally admitted.

“OK, then,” I said, relieved he might actually cooperate. “I have a plan.”

I flung my backpack off my shoulder and reached inside to grab my dad’s vest.

“This is an Ultralight Concealed Goldflex/Kevlar Level IIIA Bulletproof Vest.” I held it out to him. “Wear this day and night. I don’t know when you’ll need it.”

He sat forward on the heel of the claw-couch and took the offering, inspecting the impossibly thin design.

“Wear it with sweatshirts to maximize the concealment,” I said, channeling my father. “And you need to start thinking about other methods of protection. Hire more security, stay armed, and above all, resist any kind of bait he lays for you.”

“Slow down, sweetheart, slow down—”

“Don’t call me
sweetheart
, and don’t you dare treat this lightly,” I warned him.

“But I don’t understand. You aren’t making any sense.” He held up his hands. “Why would—”

“You don’t have to understand.” I cut him off again. “Look, I don’t have all the answers. I just know at some point he’ll come for you. And as much as I don’t give a damn about you, the only chance of this working is if you try to protect yourself. Any slight wrench in his plans might be the difference between you living and me killing you. If you value your life, you’ll fight however you can.”

Doubts fought against my hopes as he sunk in reaction to the word “fight.” This small man was no fighter. He was scrawny and despicable. But he was my only chance.

I turned to go. I couldn’t bear to be in his presence one second longer.

Before leaving, I said, “Regardless of what I think of you and the truly evil things you’ve done, I don’t want to kill you. Please don’t make me.”