Killing Ruby Rose (4 page)

“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,

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.

Before I could voice my confusion, she promptly turned tail and exited the room.

Leaving me wondering what had just happened.

CHAPTER 4

Art, schmart. I didn’t get it. And certainly not much of this stuff created for the Huntington Beach High School Art Fair.

I walked around the muggy, fried-food-scented cafeteria, just like the rest of the sheep, staring and
baahhing
at the individual pieces. I found myself lingering in front of a violent explosion of black, purple, and red paint on white canvas. I think it was supposed to be abstract, but it was probably just some emo kid’s attempt to throw something together for a grade. To me, it looked like one of those inkblot tests psychologists used to determine a person’s emotional well-being. Good thing Dr. T didn’t use this kind of thing on me.

I pulled my notebook and pen out of my backpack and tried to formulate my thoughts. We were supposed to find two pieces of art that “appealed” to us and then write down why. It was an official assignment, which meant I had to do my best if I wanted to stay on the rails of my valedictorian train track. One that was increasingly steep and treacherous these days.

I took a sharp breath and narrowed my eyes on the textured colors
.

The first words that came to mind were
blood spatter
,
grim reaper
, and—

“Seriously, do I have to force feed you normal?” Alana appeared beside me, looping her arm through mine and dragging me away from my morbid tendencies. “Come over and see the painting of La Jolla Cove that I did. It has blue skies and sunshine.”

“Does it have chubby little baby seals in it, too?” I put my pen behind my ear and followed.

“No, seals are too loud and ugly and smelly. But maybe in the distance there’s a certain hot boy in board shorts kissing a certain brown girl in a bikini.” She licked her lips in a way I didn’t need to see.

“Are you ever going to grow out of the boy-crazy phase?” I teased her.

“Don’t be jealous,” she said. “Kissing’s no crime. You should try it again sometime. You know, like therapy. And I know someone who would be happy to help with the treatment.”

“Alana, give it a rest, for, like, a day,” I said, finally pulling away from the WWF armlock she had on me. Plus, who would want to kiss me anyway? My Social Point Average had taken an even deeper nosedive after the shooting.

“Just sayin’.” She continued through the crowd to the center of the room, where I was beginning to suspect a trap. “Anyway, some guys think it’s cool that you know how to use a gun. It’s very Bond girl.”

I stopped. Suspicion confirmed. “Is that Liam over there,
also
admiring your work?” It was a rhetorical question—Liam was hard to miss. He was like a man among boys, at least in stature. His face was different, though—somehow fresh, innocent, clear. Like all the extra light in the room found its way to him, and to his light-brown, sun-bleached hair hanging over those big, bright eyes.

Regardless of the light, I didn’t like entrapment. I felt my fuse ignite—my highly flammable, dangerously short fuse.

“What? He likes good art.” She stopped to face me with puppy-dog eyes and a guilty conscience. “Rue! He likes you, all right? He asked me to set this up. He feels like you’re unapproachable. Sort of the story of your life!” She reached out to grab me by the shoulders, and I quickly deflected both hands. She knew better. After all, that’s how we met. In fourth grade, when she moved to Huntington Beach from Hawaii, I found her in the corner crying while a couple of fifth-grade girls made fun of her tattered shorts and old flip-flops. I couldn’t help myself—I had to tell the girls where to go. And when one girl tried to push me into the corner with Alana, I broke the girl’s nose. Alana and I had been best friends from then on, and she’d seen my quick reflexes get me in trouble a few times since.

“I’m kind of going through something right now, OK?” I said under my breath so half the student body didn’t witness the public confrontation.
Extra
would just love to interview Big-Mouth Taylor over there, who never stopped staring at the bleeding, withering Ruby Rose, now having a tiff with her best friend. Oh, how Taylor loved competing for the limelight and gaining the upper hand. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was behind the whole LeMarq incident just to ruin me. “I’m begging you, Alana, I just need some space right now.”

“Liam wants to be your friend, Rubik’s Cube. It’s not like he’s asking you to marry him,” she argued,
not
under her breath. I could feel the crowd start to take notice. Deep down I knew she was only trying to help me. Under different circumstances I wouldn’t have minded her matchmaking efforts.

“I don’t need any more
friends
right now,” I countered. “Not ones that don’t understand boundaries, anyway.” I clenched my jaw and stormed off.

Alana never stopped. It wasn’t that I didn’t still feel wildly drawn to Liam. It was that there was no room in my life for distractions.

“If you’re not careful, you might not have any friends
left
!” she yelled after me as I disappeared behind a papier-mâché bust of a deformed alien. I almost reached out and punched that stupid warped head for staring at me like
I
was the weird one.

I wandered aimlessly until I found myself in the least populated corner of the cafeteria and slumped against the wall. The sticky linoleum floor was full of dust bunnies, long-lost Cheetos fragments, and other unsanitary droppings I tried to block out.

I concentrated on my shoes instead—a useful strategy I busted out from time to time. Oh, how I loved the strappy, black-leather Calvin Klein wedge heels hugging my feet. Classics. Always loyal, always kind. These little beauties would never surprise-attack me in the middle of school, would never care more about their careers than my happiness, would never die and abandon me to a life full of more questions than answers. Wait.
A scu
f
f
?

“Damn it,” I mumbled. I tried to wipe it clean with my thumb and a little spit. But it did no good. I’d have to wait until I got home and found my Kicks Kleaner.

Just great. Here I was, stuck in the proverbial corner of life—and not just because of the ever-sticky linoleum I was sitting on. Now I didn’t even have anywhere to focus my disruptive thoughts. What, exactly, was I supposed to do? Stew in my guilt for snapping at the one person who still wanted me as her best friend? I wished I could distract myself by searching online for a new pair of shoes, but if I was caught on my cell phone I’d have more problems than I needed today. Cell phones weren’t allowed during school hours.

Taking my chances of making eye contact with someone, I looked straight ahead. I still had to find another piece of art that “appealed” to me so I could finish my assignment. But I didn’t want to get up.

I hoped I could see something worth looking at from here. Something that wouldn’t inspire thoughts of death, betrayal, or scuffed shoes.

About twenty feet away I noticed a black-and-white charcoal drawing. It was a sketch of a young girl with long, straight hair parted down the middle. It was really well done. Perhaps a little too well done for this bush-league art fair. I stood and wiped stray guck off my red skinny jeans and made a beeline for it.

This had to be some kind of egotistical-Freudian-thought-processing-dysfunction, because as I got nearer, that girl in the sketch started to look a hell of a lot like me. Slightly upturned nose. Dimple in the left cheek. Long neck. What the H?

Who put this here?

In the bottom right corner of the picture, old-fashioned, scrolly letters read:

Love, D. S.

Who was that?

And now that I was up close, there was something very disturbing about this sketch. It wasn’t just her face, it was the tattoo on her arm. A winged demon screeching at me, threatening to tear me apart. I’d seen that exact tattoo before on Charlie LeMarq.

Oh no. The world suddenly went fuzzy and dark, like I was seeing things through stained glass. I scanned the room for the nearest escape to fresh air, and instead of finding a clearly marked exit, I found another face that took the last of my breath away. Across the crowd, stood a man with a goatee who looked a lot like Detective Martinez.

A falling sensation rushed over me, and a sickening crack echoed through my skull.

“Ruby, can you hear me?” A raspy male voice lingered above.

“It’s Ruby Rose!” a girl shrieked through the clamor. “Someone call 911!”

“No! Somebody just get me some water,” Alana ordered.

I opened my eyes to find a three-headed monster looming over me. Then my vision cleared, and I made out Liam, Alana, and some tiny freshman girl, all fussing over me.

“No, don’t call 911—I’m fine. I just need some water, like Alana said.” I sat up and reached for the water bottle in front of me. As I drank, I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. Liam’s arms were firmly wrapped around my shoulders—with at least a hundred inquiring eyes watching, and dozens of smartphones taking pictures.

So much for the “no cell phone rule” only I was dumb enough to follow.

Among the first of my unclear thoughts was:
The tabloids are going to think it’s an early Christmas
. A close second:
This is impossible—Ruby Rose doesn’t faint.
Lagging behind:
Is Martinez really here at the art fair? Couldn’t be, because he’d be here now among the crowd
. Trailed by:
I hope I don’t have leftover cafeteria Cheetos in my hair
. And finally:
I gotta get out of here.

I got up and broke out of the literal and metaphorical grip Liam had on me. The sea of students parted as I made my way toward the exit—everyone moved except for Taylor. She just stood there gloating in all her non-fainting, anti-Ruby glory. With her arms crossed and dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail to accentuate her cat-like eyes, she said, “You OK, sweetie?”

“Excuse me,” I said, as my shoulder checked hers, knocking her off balance. Maybe one day I’d get the opportunity to teach her how I really felt about her constantly calling me sweetie. But not today. I speed walked out the double doors, and then sprinted through the parking lot, begging the ocean breeze to cool down my red-hot cheeks and spinning brain as I ran. I was pissed. And light-headed. And losing control. I didn’t even care if I got in trouble for leaving school early.

Shaking from anger and embarrassment, I climbed into Big Black and hugged his steering wheel. I immediately turned up the volume of my favorite “explicit language” rap song. I needed Big Black, I needed to be alone, I needed—a fat chocolate shake with whipped cream ASAP, and I needed to get out of this parking lot before Alana or Liam came running after me.

As I peeled out, images of the girl in the sketch kept floating to the top of my consciousness, no matter how hard I tried to push them back down. I had to find out who she was, and who’d put the sketch of her there. It was meant for me, I was sure. Well, not totally sure. I should have checked with Alana and asked if she saw it, too, just to make sure I wasn’t having a psychotic split or mental breakdown. After all, I thought I’d seen someone who looked a lot like Martinez in that same moment, and he wasn’t there. Plus, I’d never fainted before. Not like that, anyway. I passed out once during a karate match, but that was a one-off, and the only time I’d ever allowed a roundhouse to land on my body.

Fainting in the cafeteria was different: I’d had a visceral reaction to seeing that demon tattoo. It was the same tattoo LeMarq had on his arm. The exact same fangs and webbed wings. The exact same look of evil in its eyes.

Whoever lured me and LeMarq to the warehouse had also delivered that sketch to my school with the
Love, D. S.
signature. He was toying with me, communicating with me. There was no way that drawing was a coincidence. The girl looked just like me, just like Riley Bentley. These were clues. Whoever this crazy-ass D. S. was, he was speaking to me in a language I didn’t understand.

When I was almost at the Dairy Queen (which I personally kept in business), my phone vibrated in The Cleave. I looked down at the screen to see who the culprit was. A picture of D. A. Jane Rose’s new campaign poster winked back at me. Glamour Shots had nothing on this baby.

I had some headshots quite similar to this one, from back in the days when my mother had ceaselessly prodded me to compete in beauty pageants. Lame. Some things never changed, and not just because Mom’s plastic surgeon kept it that way. She put a higher priority on appearance than anything else. Instead of the popularity contests, all I’d wanted was to compete in karate—something I was actually good at. If it hadn’t been for my dad’s training in negotiation and his willingness to take her bullets for me, I’d still be her beauty queen hostage.

I declined her call. The wall between us had grown to around shoulder height even before Dad died, and now it was well over eye level. I couldn’t even see her anymore without a decent pair of four-inch Kate Spade platform heels.

Ten seconds later she called again.

She must have heard about what happened at school. There was no point in not answering. She’d track me down eventually, and I’d pay the price.

“Hey, Mom.”

“What’s going on? Where are you? I just got a call—”

“Mom, calm down.” As a seasoned prosecutor, she should’ve been trained not to pose several compound questions at once. Very objectionable in a court of law. “I’m fine. I promise.”

“Alana called. She told me you fainted and ran out of school?”

Objection: Leading question.

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ve been eating my five major food groups. I just need some protein and some rest.” I lied with a frightening ease.