Killing Ruby Rose
The Ruby Rose Series - 1
Jessie Humphries
To Nanny, who would have loved this the most.
Truths and roses have thorns about them.
—Henry David Thoreau
CHAPTER 1
I hid in the shadows, scanning the dark parking lot to assess the threat level. So far I’d identified three potential informants I’d have to evade when making a break for it. I didn’t need my 4.0 GPA to know that being seen leaving the city library at 9:00 on a Friday night wouldn’t win me any points on the SPA (Social Point Average), on which I was definitely flunking. Avoiding detection was key.
Maintaining position under the library’s dark awning, I took a quick breath of briny ocean air to gain my bearings. The parking lot’s sickly yellow lights flickered behind the suffocating fog, making it hard to tell whether the rain was misting down from above or wafting in sideways from the shore. In any case, the blacktop lay slick, full of potholes, and speckled with math-club kids who would have just loved to report a sighting of Reclusive Ruby Rose.
With a practiced stealth, I dashed through the night. Even in my new Prada peep-toe pumps—aka my Penelopes—I had speed. I moved light-footed through the blind spots, like I was navigating one of my dad’s SWAT obstacle courses, until I found cover in the driver’s seat of Big Black, my overly tinted SUV and current best friend. I gripped the steering wheel. “Ready to do this?” I asked Black, ignoring my therapist’s voice in my head telling me to stop personifying the things in my life and start concentrating on the people. She didn’t understand. Things couldn’t break my heart.
Big Black’s tires spun out, fighting for traction against the wet asphalt. No more denominators, dusty textbooks, or depressing thoughts. Instead, my mind changed gears to the last subject of study for the night. A study I’d so far kept strictly to myself. One that required night-vision binoculars, a police scanner, and my .38 Smith & Wesson handgun—all carefully hidden beneath the false bottom of the driver’s console.
Rebel energy flowed through my veins as I allowed myself to imagine tonight being the night I caught my mark—Mr. Charlie LeMarq—in the act. I had thirty minutes until he got off work and headed to his favorite dive. A creature of habit, he hadn’t deviated from his Friday-night routine for five weeks. And neither had I, as I’d waited for the evidence that would finally put the violent predator away for good.
I hit the Pacific Coast Highway with momentum, grateful for a break in the rain. With the windows cracked and the stereo up, the whipping wind and heavy beat refreshed my senses. Something about the brewing storm beyond the ocean’s black-and-blue horizon spoke to me. It was a foreboding that simultaneously quickened my heart rate and eased the ever-present heartache.
I enjoyed the moment—until my phone vibrated against said heart like a minidefibrillator shocking me back to reality. The sad reality of a seminormal seventeen-year-old girl and not the sleek sleuth I pretended to be. (Only semi because totally normal girls don’t wear four-inch Prada heels to the library, or stalk criminals, or wear four-inch Prada heels while stalking criminals.)
Pulling my cell out of my cleavage, I found the screen lit up with my best friend’s face—my real-life, living-and-breathing best friend, Alana. Though breathing as a determining factor in a best friend seemed slightly overrated.
I had a choice to make. The red “Decline” button versus the green “Answer” button. Red: Avoid the call now, and keep declining all night because Alana Kailua (aka the only un-laid-back Hawaiian in SoCal) would never stop. Green: Put up my dukes to defend myself and be forced into lies. So, basically—lose-lose.
“Hello, caller, you’re on the air,” I spoke into my Denali’s Bluetooth speaker system. I was nothing if not a law-abiding citizen who’d taken “The Pledge to Put It Down,” the promise to “put down” handheld phones while driving. District Attorney Jane Rose (aka my absentee mother) had come up with that catchy slogan for her latest campaign.
“Girl, where are you?” Alana banshee-shrieked, forcing me to make an unsafe jerk of the wheel to turn down the volume.
“I’m driving home,” I said, fully aware she wouldn’t believe me. She knew I hated going home to an empty house.
“It’s nine p.m. On a Fri—day!” she groaned. Our high school’s fight song played so fervently in the background that victory could be the only cause. Other than the abuse of energy drinks. “I know you’re not going home, so just get your antisocial A-S-S over here right now. There’s gonna be a killer after-party, and you’re coming!”
Sparring match commenced. Lately, every conversation with Alana felt like a brawl at the dojo. Like, even though I’d put away my black belt months ago, I couldn’t stop fighting.
“I’m tired, Alana.” Lateral defense move.
Checking my rearview mirror, I caught Huntington Beach High School’s stadium lights fading away. Year-ago me would have been there at the game with Alana—giggling, cavorting, and playing along. That girl (with the 4.0 SPA) had long since faded from view. “I’ll catch you tomorrow. We’ll go to the beach or something.” Submissive bow out.
“Ruby, I know you miss your dad, but your self-imposed solitary confinement isn’t helping. He wouldn’t want this.” Provoking palm-heel strike to the heart.
“Please don’t pretend to know what he’d want.” Double-handed hooking block, protecting the weak spot.
“It’s been over six months since he died,” Alana said with worn-out delicacy. “It’s time to snap out of zombie mode.”
“I didn’t lose a puppy, Alana,” I said. I lost the most important person in my life, I didn’t say, as I tried to suppress the billowing emptiness I felt inside. “I need more time.”
“Yeah, so you say.” Elbow to the mouth.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.” Bleeding.
“Say you’ll take off your loner trench coat and come have some fun. It will be good for you.”
“Not tonight, OK?” I begged, feeling the familiar anchor of guilt tugging at me, heavier every time I blew her off. “I promise we’ll go to the beach or the mall tomorrow. Whatever you want.”
“You know, Ruby, I should start calling you Rubik’s Cube, because no matter how hard I try, I can never figure out what I’m supposed to do with you,” Alana said. “And it’s such a shame, because despite the fact that you’ve gone from being the slightly intimidating Brainiac Barbie to the totally antisocial Hermit Barbie—there are still several dudes I know who’d be willing to offer their shoulders to cry on…or their laps to sit on…or their lips to—”
“Alana!” I interrupted. “I’m sorry, but my life doesn’t revolve around boys and parties like yours does, OK?”
Her long pause meant I’d pissed her off (more than I wanted to), and I drove past the street where I’d wanted to turn. My blood boiled as I realized my stupid mistake. I rarely made mistakes. And I never lost sparring matches, physical or verbal. I had the karate and debate trophies to prove it.
“Well, I promised I wouldn’t say anything, but if I can’t lure you out of your hole by myself…I have no choice.” Alana must’ve moved into the girls’ bathroom for privacy, because most of the background noise had vanished. “Your boy has something planned tonight.” Side stance, luring wave to come closer.