Jessie Humphries: Killing Ruby Rose

“It’s Ruby Rose!” a girl shrieked through the clamor. “Someone call 911!”

“No! Somebody just get me some water,” Alana ordered.

I opened my eyes to find a three-headed monster looming over me. Then my vision cleared, and I made out Liam, Alana, and some tiny freshman girl, all fussing over me.

“No, don’t call 911—I’m fine. I just need some water, like Alana said.” I sat up and reached for the water bottle in front of me. As I drank, I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. Liam’s arms were firmly wrapped around my shoulders—with at least a hundred inquiring eyes watching, and dozens of smartphones taking pictures.

So much for the “no cell phone rule” only I was dumb enough to follow.

Among the first of my unclear thoughts was: The tabloids are going to think it’s an early Christmas . A close second: This is impossible—Ruby Rose doesn’t faint. Lagging behind: Is Martinez really here at the art fair? Couldn’t be, because he’d be here now among the crowd . Trailed by: I hope I don’t have leftover cafeteria Cheetos in my hair . And finally: I gotta get out of here.

I got up and broke out of the literal and metaphorical grip Liam had on me. The sea of students parted as I made my way toward the exit—everyone moved except for Taylor. She just stood there gloating in all her non-fainting, anti-Ruby glory. With her arms crossed and dark hair pulled into a tight ponytail to accentuate her cat-like eyes, she said, “You OK, sweetie?”

“Excuse me,” I said, as my shoulder checked hers, knocking her off balance. Maybe one day I’d get the opportunity to teach her how I really felt about her constantly calling me sweetie. But not today. I speed walked out the double doors, and then sprinted through the parking lot, begging the ocean breeze to cool down my red-hot cheeks and spinning brain as I ran. I was pissed. And light-headed. And losing control. I didn’t even care if I got in trouble for leaving school early.

Shaking from anger and embarrassment, I climbed into Big Black and hugged his steering wheel. I immediately turned up the volume of my favorite “explicit language” rap song. I needed Big Black, I needed to be alone, I needed—a fat chocolate shake with whipped cream ASAP, and I needed to get out of this parking lot before Alana or Liam came running after me.

As I peeled out, images of the girl in the sketch kept floating to the top of my consciousness, no matter how hard I tried to push them back down. I had to find out who she was, and who’d put the sketch of her there. It was meant for me, I was sure. Well, not totally sure. I should have checked with Alana and asked if she saw it, too, just to make sure I wasn’t having a psychotic split or mental breakdown. After all, I thought I’d seen someone who looked a lot like Martinez in that same moment, and he wasn’t there. Plus, I’d never fainted before. Not like that, anyway. I passed out once during a karate match, but that was a one-off, and the only time I’d ever allowed a roundhouse to land on my body.

Fainting in the cafeteria was different: I’d had a visceral reaction to seeing that demon tattoo. It was the same tattoo LeMarq had on his arm. The exact same fangs and webbed wings. The exact same look of evil in its eyes.

Whoever lured me and LeMarq to the warehouse had also delivered that sketch to my school with the Love, D. S. signature. He was toying with me, communicating with me. There was no way that drawing was a coincidence. The girl looked just like me, just like Riley Bentley. These were clues. Whoever this crazy-ass D. S. was, he was speaking to me in a language I didn’t understand.

When I was almost at the Dairy Queen (which I personally kept in business), my phone vibrated in The Cleave. I looked down at the screen to see who the culprit was. A picture of D. A. Jane Rose’s new campaign poster winked back at me. Glamour Shots had nothing on this baby.

I had some headshots quite similar to this one, from back in the days when my mother had ceaselessly prodded me to compete in beauty pageants. Lame. Some things never changed, and not just because Mom’s plastic surgeon kept it that way. She put a higher priority on appearance than anything else. Instead of the popularity contests, all I’d wanted was to compete in karate—something I was actually good at. If it hadn’t been for my dad’s training in negotiation and his willingness to take her bullets for me, I’d still be her beauty queen hostage.

I declined her call. The wall between us had grown to around shoulder height even before Dad died, and now it was well over eye level. I couldn’t even see her anymore without a decent pair of four-inch Kate Spade platform heels.

Ten seconds later she called again.

She must have heard about what happened at school. There was no point in not answering. She’d track me down eventually, and I’d pay the price.

“Hey, Mom.”

“What’s going on? Where are you? I just got a call—”

“Mom, calm down.” As a seasoned prosecutor, she should’ve been trained not to pose several compound questions at once. Very objectionable in a court of law. “I’m fine. I promise.”

“Alana called. She told me you fainted and ran out of school?”

Objection: Leading question.

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ve been eating my five major food groups. I just need some protein and some rest.” I lied with a frightening ease.

“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.

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.