Jessie Humphries - Killing Ruby Rose

Whoa, whoa, whoa. I shook my head in complete disagreement and backed away.

“Liam, it’s never OK to kill,” I said flatly. He didn’t get how it felt—hearing the crunch of bullet through bone. Seeing the spurt of blood. Living with the awful knowledge that I’d killed them. Not the cops, not my dad—but me. I had good reason to do it, sure, but that didn’t make it “OK.”

“Of course it is.” He looked around like one of my mom’s nude Greek sculptures would side with him and tell me how ridiculous I was being. “You don’t really believe that.”

“I believe in the justice system. I believe in the law. And I believe in the enforcement of it by those with authority to administer it,” I said.

“And the law says a killing is justified in self-defense or in the defense of others. It’s called excusable homicide,” he said confidently. When I looked impressed, he added, “I Googled it.”

I blew out an exasperated breath. Here I was standing half-naked in my foyer, arguing legal semantics with Liam Slater. I had so many problems that I couldn’t even count them anymore. But first things first, I needed to put some clothes on.

“Come up to my room in five minutes, OK?” I said and turned to go up the stairs. “It’s the second door on the left.”

“OK.” He smiled from perfect ear to scarred ear. I hoped he wasn’t thinking what it looked like he was thinking. Or, maybe I hoped he was.

I walked (completely clothed) to my window and opened it to make sure I could hear Mom’s car if she came home. Not because I was going to be sharing a sex session with Liam, but because I was going to share something far more sinister: my research on two criminals, who just happened to have died by my hands.

“I like your room,” Liam said from the edge of my bed. I detected an unusual amount of nervousness in his voice. “Very…uh…beachy.”

“Bitchy?” I asked, teasing him for the stammer, and I joined him on the bed.

He grinned and shook his head. “It’s like being at the beach. All the seashells and starfish and all.”

“I’m just kidding,” I assured him, grateful he hadn’t seen my shoe closet. That one would be hard to explain, even to him. “I just wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what you really thought of me. Or worse.”

“You should do that more often,” he said, with suddenly soft eyes.

“What, misinterpret your words?”

“No, smile.” He held my gaze. “It looks good on you.”

My smile faded. Something about him pointing it out made it scamper away. Plus, I wasn’t entitled to smile. I still had blood on my hands. Did that look good on me?

Except, Liam’s expression made it clear that discussing my guilt wasn’t exactly what he had in mind at the moment.

I had to change the subject. The tension radiating from him practically screamed “Let’s Do It” like a flashing neon sign. I could even almost hear Marvin Gaye singing “Let’s Get It On.” And I could 100 percent for sure feel the energy sparking between his body and mine.

I’d opened the door wearing my hooker robe, invited him to my room, sat him on my bed, and smiled . Of course he could get the wrong idea. I think I was getting the wrong idea myself. On cue, images of him with his shirt off on the beach formed in my mind. His wet suit hanging low on his hips, his tan skin, his soft lips…

I felt like a hot teapot about to whistle from the steam inside me. Just as I was about to get up, he said, “I’m not trying to get into your pants, Ruby.”

Huh? What about the neon sign—and Marvin Gaye? I’m pretty sure that my face turned Ruby Red.

“Er, that’s not what I meant,” he said, squirming again. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I mean, I totally do. Like you wouldn’t believe—but that’s not why I’m here.” He rubbed his forehead like massaging it would help him articulate. “That came out weird.”

“Liam, it’s OK,” I said, wondering what my personal neon sign was saying right now. “Let me show you something.”

I stood and offered my hand to help him up. He looked up at me like he couldn’t believe it. I was actually reaching out to him. I could hardly believe it, either.

He took it and something like an electrical shock zipped through me, head to toe. His clear eyes set me on fire; his scent burned me up. I forgot for a second what I was doing.

Oh yeah, the chest . I needed him to move so I could reach under the bed to grab it. I let go of his hand and fell to my knees beside him. With a grunt and a tug, the treasure came gliding out. I’d never shared this with anyone else. I couldn’t believe I was doing it now.

I paused, wondering if I could trust Liam with this. He might not understand. But I needed help. A fresh set of eyes. I was too close. I couldn’t see the forest or the trees anymore.

“What is that thing?” he asked, looking a bit worried.

“It’s just some evidence I’ve been gathering,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I’ve looked over this stuff several times in the last few days, but maybe you can help me find something significant.” I fumbled with the code and popped the lock. Which made me remember the whole cage situation from last night. My body tensed up at the thought of the bars and the stupid three-digit bike lock.

“It’s 366,” I mumbled.

“What’s wrong?” Liam dropped to his knees beside me.

“Just remembering a detail.”

I told him how I was the only one put in a cage, glossing over how afraid I am of bars—not wanting to relive it. How I escaped, the combination number, and how they matched the address from the first shooting. About how there had been other cryptic clues or messages. Like the demon tattoo on that girl in the sketch at the art fair. Like the D. S. signature. Like the fact that the girl in the sketch looked a lot like me, just like the little girl Riley Bentley—the one I saved at the warehouse—and just like the one I didn’t save on Ninth Street. Like making me use my dad’s gun and then returning it to me afterward. Whoever was doing this to me was doing it for a reason.

“So, let me get this straight,” Liam said, staring at the unopened chest. “This guy is sending you messages? Leaving you clues?”

“It feels like it. Like he’s giving me pieces of some strange, twisted puzzle, and I’m supposed to put them together somehow.”

“But why? To show you who he is? To exact revenge on your mom or dad? To lead you on a wild goose chase until he strangles you in some Satan-worshipping ceremony?”

“Jeez, Liam.” I glared at him. “Way to make a girl feel better.”

“Oh, sorry.” He frowned and shook his head. “That was an insensitive joke and absolutely not going to happen. I was just thinking out loud.”

“Whatever,” I said, now focusing on the chest, wondering again if I should actually share this darkness with another human being. I could just see him on the witness stand. The prosecutor would ask him, “Then what did the defendant do?” He’d reply, “We were alone in her bedroom when she showed me her chest—her chest of horrors.” Dun dun dun!

“Well, are you going to show me what’s in this thing or not?” Liam asked.

“Yeah, of course.” I flung open the top and pulled out a few of the most recent notebooks. “OK, before you start judging me, I just want you to know my therapist told me I needed an outlet . I was, like, comatose for two months after my dad was murdered. And one of the only things that got my mind off of his death was focusing on these guys.” I laid out five files. “I call them the Filthy Five. Child abusers, murderers, and drug traffickers that either my dad couldn’t catch or my mom put back on the street. I’ve been following them. Now two of them are dead.” I stopped myself. I wasn’t explaining it right. Maybe, if I just let him look at the records and connect the dots himself, he’d see something I missed.