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.