Jessie Humphries - Killing Ruby Rose

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.