Killing Ruby Rose (5 page)

“I don’t believe you,” she said flatly. “Alana said you were upset.”

Objection: Hearsay.

“No, I’m not upset. Just embarrassed. I need to grab some take-out and lie down for a while.”

“You’ve been acting very
strangely
lately.”

Objection: Facts not in evidence. She barely sees me, how would she know?

“I’m very worried about you, honey.”

Objection: Badgering the witness. I’ve told her a million times to stop calling me honey.

“Jane! I said I’m fine.” Two could play the name game—she hated when I didn’t call her Mom. “I’ll see you tonight. That is, if you get home before midnight.” Switching the focus to her always won the argument.

“No, I’ll be home in fifteen minutes. We need to talk. You’d better be home then, too.” She hung up.

As I pressed “End,” I wondered what wrong button of hers I’d pressed. She never wanted to talk. She was never home before nine or ten. And she never hung up on
me
.

Great.

CHAPTER 5

I practically inhaled my chocolate shake—and it soothed every hot corner of my soul. Albeit temporarily.

I flung my backpack off my shoulder and collapsed onto my bed. I felt sick. Sick from the chocolate overdose, sick from my fight with Alana, sick with images of that sketch, sick with light-headedness from fainting, and sick with dread of the impending interrogation by my mother.

What was I going to tell her? The truth? Ha. She would feel obligated as an officer of the court to inform the appropriate authorities of all my
missteps.
Plus, my full and not-yet-entirely-disclosed side of the story was insane:

So, Mom, I didn’t mention it before, but I had more of a hand in the killing of LeMarq than you thought, due to my OCD hobby of following killers in my spare time. And, oh yeah, there might be a chance that one of the other killers I was following is connected to the dude who lured me to that warehouse on Water Street. Oh, and now he’s sending me messages through the school art show. But don’t worry, it’s all good. Let’s just pretend none of it happened.

Uh, no.

I crammed a pillow over my face so I could scream. But mid-scream, I realized
that
was about to turn into a throw-up, and I stopped.

The rumble of the garage door below let me know I had to get a grip on myself. I ran into the bathroom and washed my face with cold water, scrubbing off all my eye makeup in preparation for the inquisition. I would be stone faced. I would be savvy. Mom might have known how to intimidate criminals and suspects. But I knew how to box her out.

“Rue-girl,” she hollered from downstairs. “I’m home.”

“I’ll be right there.”

I stared myself down in the mirror and whispered, “You can do this.”

I met my mom in the kitchen, where she still had her sunglasses on like she was some kind of hungover rock star. Even her stylish little A-line bob was askew. It looked darker than usual, so black that it maybe even had a hint of blue. She’d been going progressively darker since last year’s polling data showed her darker hair produced a better Latino vote. If she thought I was a disappointment in my choice of guns over dolls, I felt the same way about her choice to embrace her Mexican heritage because it was convenient for political points. I’d never even met one member of her family. Her mother died when she was in law school, before I was born, and despite the fact that her father was still alive and unwell somewhere in San Diego, she hadn’t spoken to him since he walked out on them when she was eight. I knew she had extended family spread across Southern California, but I stopped asking about them years ago when I learned my questions put her in a dark mood.

She was pouring herself a glass of wine. Liquid courage. Not fair—I didn’t get any.

“Mom, it’s only two o’clock.” I grabbed an apple off the counter—Granny Smith was my only ally here. “Should
I
be worried about
you
?” I had to stay on the offensive.

“Ruby,” she said, putting down the bottle. “Let’s not do that.”

“Do what?” I asked innocently, sitting down on a barstool across from her.

“Let’s not shift attention to me, when this is about you.” She finally took off her Gucci sunglasses, revealing puffiness around the eyes I wasn’t expecting. She bit at her Restylane-injected lips—an old nervous habit, and one Dr. Syringe-Happy in Beverly Hills had warned her to break.

“Obviously not,” I said, trying not to gawk at the hot mess before me. I’d never seen her looking like this—not even when Dad died. I knew she probably cried then, but it was behind her perpetually closed doors and perfectly coiffed facade. “What, did Bill Brandon call you a bad name in the
Los Angeles Times
today?”

She turned her back to me and rubbed her eyes with a clean dishrag next to the sink. This was highly unusual. I’d caught her in a real weak spot. Maybe I could actually win this one.

“No, this isn’t about Bill Brandon.” She faced me with renewed strength in her bloodshot, mascara-smudged eyes. “This is about you. Only you.”

Oh, snap.

I told myself to think happy thoughts. I scratched at the thin wax coating on Granny Smith and imagined landing a sweet high kick. Buying a new pair of Steve Madden cowgirl boots. Kissing Liam Slater while we lay on the beach. Wait, where did that come from?

“Please stay with me,” she said with a note of uncharacteristic hysteria in her voice. “I really need you to
not
do that thing where you close yourself off and think of other things and direct your attention onto inanimate objects.”

I set down Granny Smith—like she’d ratted me out. “Wow, so you’re a psychic now?” I asked. Since when had she paid attention to me long enough to figure out my war tactics?

“I may not be perfect, but I’m not stupid.” She rounded the counter and stood opposite me. “I know we’ve been distant
…
and I haven’t really been
here
for you…”

Not this conversation. I was so not in the mood for one of our strained heart-to-hearts.

“This past year has been difficult to say the least. Losing your father, fighting for my campaign, this whole LeMarq debacle. It’s fair to say, I’ve really been thrown for a loop.”

Excusez-moi
?
Did she just say that me shooting a man in the head had thrown
her
for a loop?

“I want you to know I love you very much.” In my peripheral vision I saw her fiddling with her wedding ring, like her words weren’t only meant for me.

I looked up. I hadn’t heard her say the word “love” in so long. Something inside me felt soothed by that one simple sentence, reminding me of a better time when it felt true.

“I know I haven’t been spending enough time with you and that I’ve been relying too much on Dr. Teresa for updates, which is completely unacceptable.” She pinched her eyes shut. “But that’s not the way it’s going to work anymore.” She opened her eyes and focused on me with a scary intensity. “And I need to start by telling you something important. Something I should have told you a long time ago—but never found the right time.”

She paused and put her lips in position to say something, but nothing came out. This was becoming too painful to endure.

“I need you to know that everything I’ve done is to protect you, provide for you, and help you. And I will never stop trying to do that.” With her hand over her heart, she nodded at me to make sure I understood. I didn’t.

“What are you talking about, Mom?”

“Regardless of what has happened, or what will happen, I want you to remember that, OK?” A full-blown heat rash had developed on her neck. She started rubbing at it without taking her eyes off me. Her agitation did nothing to comfort me.

“Just tell me what you’re talking about. Am I in trouble with the police? Are you going to have to press charges against me?” I gulped, not sure I wanted the answer.

“No, Ruby, that’s not it. No charges will be brought. I don’t want you worrying about that.” She rounded the counter and brushed some of the hair off my brow. That simple touch felt like stars springing to life inside of me after years of living in darkness.

“It’s about your dad.” She hesitated, pulling away before I was ready. “I know I never showed much appreciation for the way the two of you spent so much time together, shooting and fighting and whatnot.”

“That’s a bit of an understatement,” I said, wondering where she was going with this. “All you ever did was punish him, and me, for it.”

“I know,” she said with a grimace. “And I’m sorry.”

Jane Rose said the S-word? And not in a sarcastic way?

“Turns out, he was right.” Tears emerged in her eyes. “He was a good man, and he would have wanted me to tell you—”

A loud chime reverberated through the house.

“Are you expecting someone?” she asked, reaching up to smooth her hair.

“No.” I shook my head, thrown off by (a) Mom’s most sincere moment in years; (b) what Dad “would have wanted” my mom to tell me; and (c) the sound of the doorbell. Normally, people had to press the call button and get buzzed in to get past the entry gates. My parents couldn’t be too careful with all the criminals they’d put away.

She grabbed the kitchen towel again and attempted to wipe away every sign of emotion before she took off toward the door, putting the Guccis back over her eyes.

As I absorbed the whiplash of emotions she’d just put me through and listened to the abrasively familiar click-clack of her heels on the tile as she walked away, I wondered who’d dared to trespass. Who was pulling my mom away just when she was finally opening up to me?

Before I had time to prioritize the feelings of annoyance at being interrupted and anger at Mom leaving me hanging again, I heard her gasp.

“What the hell!” She sounded scared. My mother was never scared.

I froze, allowing my mind to conjure all the fatal possibilities.

Just as I managed to gather myself to search the kitchen for some kind of weapon, the air pressure in the house changed, opening the front door with a gust.

I was out of time.

Clutching the steak knife I’d grabbed and listening for a
ny
indication that Mom was in danger and I needed to act. Why would she have opened the door if she was scared? Maybe she wasn’t the one who’d opened the door at all.

“Hello, Jane.” A deep Spanish-flavored voice boomed through our grand entryway. I knew that voice.

“Detective Martinez, is there some reason you didn’t call my office?” my mother said in her trademark passive-aggressive tone.

My fingers uncurled from my weapon as I realized I no longer needed one—and that brandishing a blade wouldn’t win me any points with the man investigating me as a murderer. I dropped the knife and cringed when it clattered into the stainless steel sink.

“I apologize,” Martinez muttered, sounding entirely unapologetic. “But I did call your office. Several times, in fact.”

“So you show up unannounced at my home?” my mother seethed. “This is hardly appropriate, Detective.” She may have been irritated at his unexpected drop-in, but
I
was terrified. Even though he wasn’t the first dangerous person who’d come to my mind when my mom gasped, he was dangerous nonetheless. Perhaps he’d found evidence to contradict my sworn statement. Maybe he was here to catch me in my lie—that I’d never heard of Charlie LeMarq before the night I killed him—and take me in with hands cuffed behind my back. Or maybe he really was at the art show, and he knew a lot more about the investigation than he’d been letting on.

“Have I interrupted something?” Martinez asked.

“No,” she said, as if she’d completely forgotten that we were just in the middle of a rare moment of her opening up to me about my father. I tried not to let her lie sting.

“Good, because we need to talk.”

“About what?”

“About the investigation, of course,” he said, inviting himself in. “Is Ruby around?”

I tiptoed across the acoustic tile and peeked around the corner.

“Yes, but I would prefer it if we talked privately,” she said, trying to corral him into her office. Instead, he walked around the foyer as if looking for something. He stopped in front of the framed family portrait, his face scrunching up in a weird way as he stared at my father’s image. His goatee, his thick gold chain necklace, and unnecessary black leather jacket made him seem more like an actor playing a part on
Law & Order: LA
than a real cop. He was more good-looking than I remembered—and probably less good-looking than he remembered. Arrogant ass.

“Detective, please, my bureau if you would,” she ordered, more aggressive than passive at this point, gesturing with her hands for him to move away from the picture and behind the closed doors of her
bureau
. Like using the French word made her office fancier, or more official.

He reluctantly followed her command, muttering something in Spanglish that I didn’t understand. I knew she was only trying to protect me—my rights, my emotional stability. But I didn’t like being kept in the dark. And I didn’t think I could wait one second to hear what update he had on the investigation.

“Hi, Detective Martinez.” I popped out right before the office door shut. His head swung around at my voice, and I saw a hint of excitement on his face before he narrowed his eyes into a stern-cop look.

“Hey, Ruby,” he said. “Your mother and I were about to have a chat. But you’re welcome to join us if you’d like.”

I glanced at my mom. Her jawbone was about to break. “No, Detective, I already told you I would prefer if we speak alone.”

“She’s a big girl. She can decide for herself.” He wasn’t intimidated by my mom or her D. A. attitude. Huh—that was rare.

“Yeah, Mom,” I said, walking past them into the
bureau
. “Don’t you think I deserve to know what’s going on?”

She followed me and whispered in my ear, “Listen to me. Don’t speak, even if he asks you direct questions. Let me answer for you. Do you understand?”

“Mom, he’s here to tell me what’s going on, not to interrogate me,” I whispered back, not believing my own words.

“Don’t be so naive, Rue.”

She sat me next to her on the couch, and motioned for Martinez to sit across from us in an armchair.

“So tell us, Detective, what news do you have to report?” she asked, firmly in command again. “What has the quick-as-snails Homicide Unit discovered?”

He gave her a look of disgust before focusing on me. “Well, it looks like your story has been corroborated by the forensics,” he said, leaning forward, elbows braced over knees, practically oozing testosterone. If he was trying to establish some kind of male dominance here—good luck. “We dumped LeMarq’s cell phone and found several texts and calls from an untraceable disposable cell. We know now that an unknown suspect promising a ‘blonde delivery’ lured LeMarq there. We assume it was this same unknown suspect who texted Ruby that night.”