Jessie Humphries: Killing Ruby Rose

I was a killer now, and nothing would ever change that. No matter how Dear D. A. Jane Rose played this one, I was guilty.

But of what, I wasn’t quite sure.

Alana wasn’t much of a bodyguard—or publicist—but, bless her heart, she tried.

“Just keep walking,” she said, her arm unnecessarily wrapped through mine, escorting me out of last period. “When Chanel stink-eye over there gets pregnant by her twenty-four-year-old boyfriend, they’ll have a new scandal to talk about.” Her voice was loud enough for Chanel’s beady little eyes to turn to slits of spite. I wished Alana hadn’t said that—I didn’t need any more enemies.

It had been several weeks since the shooting, but I’d only been back to school for one. While the stares hadn’t dissipated much, at least the camera crews had. Thanks to Mother Jane getting an injunction against the media to leave me alone at school, I’d only seen two paparazzi snipers hiding in trees today.

Despite the fact that no charges were brought against me, the jury was still out in my trial by public opinion.

“After I finish cheer practice and you finish your shopping , wanna come over?” Alana asked, putting undue emphasis on our code word for my psychotherapy appointments. She was the only person in the world besides my parents who knew about my long-term therapy. Therapy that I may or may not have needed before my dad died or the LeMarq shooting, but that I’d definitely needed since. She added, “We can watch a totally non-creepy, non-killing Halloween movie at my house. Maybe Scooby-Doo or something?”

“Sure,” I said with my current version of a smile, keeping my head down as we crossed into the parking lot. “But do you mind if we do it at my house?”

“Ruby, it’s time to get out of the dungeon.” She shook her head. “Your tan is paying the price. You know what I always say: Tan makes fat look good!”

I pulled my head up to give her my seriously? look. “First, you’re such a racist. White girls like me can’t get a brown Hawaiian glow like yours.”

“Hey…” She pretended to be offended, but instead began checking out her carefully maintained bronze forearm.

“Second, you’re a stick.”

“Not after that Tic Tac I just ate,” she said with a wink. When Alana and I first met nearly a decade ago, she still had some of her “baby fat”—as she liked to call it. But even though she was now thinner than me, she was still self-conscious. It probably didn’t help that half of her huge family (in size and number) still called her Baby Fat.

“Third, the breadth of your shallowness never ceases to amaze—”

A whistle that sounded more like a birdcall cut me off. I looked over to a group of guys hanging out on a classic yellow muscle car with ridiculous pinstripes. The guys reminded me of the Macaws of the Amazon series I’d been watching late at night on the Discovery Channel during my recent bouts with insomnia.

Display of brightly colored plumage: check.

Loud sounds to attract the female gender: check.

Posturing and puffing out of chests: check.

Then I saw Liam at the back of the flock. His rainforest-blue eyes caught mine, clouding my defenses. I’d been avoiding this moment.

I wanted to look away, I really did. But the way he was looking at me didn’t speak of preening or puffing. More like worry—or some other emotion I didn’t know how to read. He had to know by now how I got duped into going down to the docks in the first place—my ridiculous crush on him. Of course he knew. Everyone knew, thanks to a few corrupt cops and morally bankrupt tabloid reporters.

I felt like a fool.

“Call me later, Alana,” I said, already flying toward my hermit’s nest, where I could hide my pale feathers stained red at the tips.

“You’d better answer!” she called out after me.

Somewhere along the line I’d gotten the crazy idea that therapists’ offices were supposed to be tranquil, with the soothing sounds of bubbling water or something. No such luck.

If I’d had a gun, I would’ve shot the damn clock for ticking so obnoxiously at me—an impulse that, admittedly, screamed “anger-management issues.” But since my anger was directed toward an inanimate object and not a person, it was totally fine.

Or so I told myself.

Plus, my concealed weapons license had been suspended and Smith taken into evidence. I was harmless.

“How are things at home?” Dr. Teresa asked in her I-know-what-you’re-thinking-better-than-you-do voice.

“Fine,” I said, refusing eye contact. She sat only a few feet away in her oversized love seat, which made her appear intentionally undersized. She wasn’t the only one who could analyze others’ choices.

“How’s your mother handling the press?” she said. It was a nudge—a pleasant, patient push. I knew this tactic well. She was focusing the attention on someone else to make me more comfortable until I opened up naturally.

And if that didn’t work, she’d move on to the crowbar-to-a-nail strategy.

“I’m not sure,” I responded, biting at a cuticle that just wouldn’t behave. I had tactics, too.

“Ruby,” she said, lowering her voice into what I liked to call The Tone (a deeper version of her voice that meant it was time to drop the pretenses), “for me to help, you have to give me more than three-word answers.”

I still didn’t want to look at her, but I felt myself soften a little. The Tone had that effect on me. I was pretty sure she was part witch. But in a good way. I liked to think of her as my own personal Mother Teresa. At least when she was in one of those super-intuitive saintly kinds of moods where she seemed to be molding my soul like Play-Doh. In some ways, she was more of a mother to me than my own mom—especially during campaign season.

For the last eleven years, she’d been here for me whenever I needed her.

Signs of depression or withdrawal? Call Dr. T.

Night terrors and recurring dreams of being locked behind bars? Dr. T can fix it.

Fighting at school? Get Dr. T on the phone, stat!

Some years were better than others. In fact, in the last few I’d only been checking in with her every six months or so. But after Dad died, we reinstated our weekly Wednesday sessions at three. And since “the incident” with LeMarq, we’d been meeting every Friday, too.

Dr. T was one of the only people in the world who truly knew me—and still liked me.

She used to be my mom’s therapist, too, but apparently the D. A. didn’t need it (or have time for it) anymore. Jane Rose was now holding herself out as a beacon of mental health and stability, warming everyone with her powerful glow.

“Why don’t you tell me what you would like to talk about today?” Dr. T uncrossed her legs and sat forward in her seat so only a few uncomfortable feet divided us—another one of her tactics to open me up. Next would be the crowbar.

I tucked my feet under my knees and bought myself a few more inches of personal space on the couch.

We sat in silence for a while. She would be patient—eternally, painfully, patient.

“Why don’t I feel bad that LeMarq’s dead?” I asked, point-blank.

“Because you did the right thing,” she said without hesitation.

“Yeah, but killing is wrong. Morally, ethically, biblically wrong.” Not that I’d ever read the Bible, but that sounded right. “And even though I hate the fact I had to do it, I sort of…don’t hate that he’s dead.” I hung my head, knowing these words would be dangerous spoken outside this room.

“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.”