“You killed to save a life. Defense of others is not only legally acceptable, but morally, ethically, and biblically as well.” Her lips spread into a soft smile. “That’s precisely why no charges have been filed against you. You know all this.”
It was true. I knew all this because it had been carefully explained to me more times than necessary. And although my mind understood it, my heart and soul didn’t seem to be getting the same message.
Part of me couldn’t help feel a satisfaction in LeMarq being dead and gone. At least he would never kill again. And yet, nothing seemed to cleanse me from the dirtiness of being the one who’d pulled the trigger. I shouldn’t have been forced to kill. I believed in law and order. I was born and raised with the principles of “innocent until proven guilty,” and “justice is blind.” Seriously, my mom sat me in front of that damn Justice statue every Saturday one summer so she could work while I studied. Turns out, Justice is a scantily clad, blindfolded woman holding a phallic sword and a set of scales—more like a Vegas stripper than an appropriate representation of fairness. And although I’d seen enough to know that our justice system didn’t always live up to its ideals, I still believed it was the only and best solution for handling criminals. Who was I to have single-handedly sentenced someone—even someone like LeMarq—to the death penalty?
“The newspapers don’t see it that way,” I said. “They think the reason no charges have been filed against me is because my mom’s the D. A.” I looked out the window, wondering how many so-called journalists would love to be privy to this conversation. “It’s been nearly two months, and they won’t leave me alone.”
“Don’t pay attention to them,” she said. “I keep telling you, don’t give them the satisfaction.”
“But aren’t they right to question what happened? None of this makes any sense.” I rubbed my temples, trying to put together a puzzle for which I didn’t have all the pieces. “Somebody lured me there. Somebody sent me a text.”
She straightened her back and ran her fingers through her dark hair. She always did that when she felt like she was losing control of the conversation. “Have they been able to trace the number that texted you yet? Or find out who LeMarq was on the phone with when you arrived?”
“They haven’t said anything if they have.”
“I’m sure they will. It’s only a matter of time before they complete their investigation and clear you officially,” she assured me. As if she was in a position to do so. “We all believe you did the right thing.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t think Detective Martinez believes me.” I bit at that damn cuticle as though everything else would be OK if I could just fix my poorly executed manicure.
“Why would you think that?” she asked.
“You should have seen how he grilled me when he asked me to come into the precinct for more questioning. About why I had a gun with a laser sight in the first place, why my dad would give me a concealed weapons license, why I took the kill shot, why I would be so gullible as to respond to a text from an unknown number, why I didn’t wait for the police, why I’ve been in therapy for most of my life…”
“Wait. He asked you about therapy?” Her eyebrows drew together, highlighting a few wrinkles her organic oils and yoga meditations hadn’t managed to erase.
“Yeah, I’m not even sure how he knew. I guess that’s why he’s Mr. Big-Shot Detective.”
“What did you say his name was?” She reached for her pen and pad of paper.
“Detective Martinez. With a capital M for Meathead. Why?” I asked.
“Did you know this detective before the incident?” She answered my question with a question. Why do therapists always do that?
“Yeah, he used to be my dad’s partner, like twenty years ago. Before Dad switched over to SWAT,” I said, trying to use the lack of personal space to my advantage for once and read the notes on her lap. Detecting the angle, she pulled the notepad up to her chest, removing the distraction. “That’s why it sucks that he’s the lead investigator. He hated my dad. And I think he hates me.”
“Who told you he hated your dad?”
“My mom. She said something about bad blood between them, and I should never talk to him without her present.”
Dr. T looked puzzled. “Though I’m sure you’d do well to follow her legal advice, I’m not so sure he would have any reason to hate you.”
“How about that I killed somebody,” I said. “I’m a Vigilante Teen Assassin. At least that’s what TMZ called me. They can’t get over the accuracy of my shot. They think that because LeMarq humiliated my mom in court, I might be the one who set him up.”
“I told you not to pay attention to that filth—”
“They’re very thorough, you know.” I cut her off. “They found out my ‘abnormally high’ IQ results, my ‘strange obsession’ with combat training under my father’s tutelage, my prolonged leave of absence from school after he died, and even my ‘isolating behavior’ at school since. They even quoted this girl in my class named Taylor, saying, ‘She never really did fit in.’ ”
I shook my head, knowing Taylor’s brutally public words were true. Even when I was little, I knew I wasn’t like everyone else. Sure, I had the clothes and the shoes and the general skills to win superficial popularity points. But most girls, like Taylor, didn’t go around knee-thrusting bullies in the crotch, even if they deserved it. And it probably didn’t help when Dad reprimanded me for said crotch-kicking with a poorly concealed smile on his face.
In the last couple years, I’d managed to get involved in stuff like debate and student government, but I’d never managed to be, well, normal.
“And yesterday,” I continued, “I saw this picture on the cover of a magazine—white rose petals dripping with blood, falling over an unidentified headstone—and above it in block letters: ‘Ruby Rose: Teen Hero Bleeding with Grief Over Her Fallen Father? Or Drenched with Guilt Over Her Dead Victim?’ ”
Dr. Teresa must have sensed my latent insanity and put the pad and pen down to clear her throat and get my attention back.
“Let’s not focus on that right now.”
“But they’re right!” I shook my head in defiance. “What the hell was I doing there? How did this happen to me?”
I knew exactly how this had happened, though. I’d brought it all on myself. I’d been tracking LeMarq (and a few others like him) for weeks, and voila—the consequences had arrived. I knew that what I was doing was dangerous. I just hadn’t quite realized how killing a monster like him would make me feel.
“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.