Free Killing Ruby Rose by Jessie Humphries

“look better in order to feel better” were working. I needed a few moments with my oldest and dearest friend: Gladys—aka my shoe closet.
    I rounded the corner of my bathroom and opened the door to the other “wing” of my bedroom. Clicking the light switch on, I watched the heavenly fluorescent light shine luminously on her walls. Happy to see me, too, Gladys and all her Pips stood at attention for my entry—except for my tan Dolce & Gabbana Catwoman boots, which had to be neatly hung to avoid damage or creases. I had to take care of my Sleeping Beauties.
    “Gladys, I need help.” My words echoed into the space. Sometimes it really paid to be an only child. This room had been meant for my sister or brother, but when they never happened, Dad knocked down a wall to give me a playroom. I was never really into toys—just shoes. I know. Weird. Dr. T told my mom I would likely grow out of it. No such luck. Dad thought it was funny. Mom thought it was expensive—but better than guns. And how could she blame me? She’s the one who’d taught me everything I knew about high-fashion footwear. Shoes were “our” thing. Or at least they used to be.
    “I’m going to the beach—and then to sucky school—but I need to be able to move,” I said as if Gladys might talk back.
    I walked around the shelves Dad had handcrafted just for me and the Pips, until I found them. My Juicy Couture Platino Metallic Gladiator Sandals named Hermes. I plucked them off the shelf and took them back to my room to get dressed, throwing on some yellow leggings, a Roxy hoodie, and my Spy sunglasses. I knew there was no sun, but like my shoes, they provided emotional support.
    I slung my backpack over my shoulder and took a deep breath. A Courage Breath for the day—I didn’t ignore everything Dr. T taught me.
    Now I just had to sneak out without Hawkeye Jane catching me. I slithered down the stairs, into the garage, and into Big Black. For the quickest escape, I hit the garage-door opener at the same time as the ignition. It was already 6:00 a.m., and I only had eighty minutes before school started.
     
    After sitting in the dry sand under the Pier for fifteen minutes, no effective thinking had taken place. Instead, I watched the light shift over the pink-and-purple horizon. Surfers lined up for their turns on the larger than usual sets rolling in. I hadn’t surfed since Dad had died. It was our thing. And I missed it.
    We’d sit out past the break waiting for the waves, and he’d tell me stories about combat as a Marine. About how hard it was to come back from the atrocities he’d witnessed as a soldier abroad. About the dangers still looming at home. About the line between right and wrong.
    He’d called this beach his shoreline. He wanted to believe that—whatever he did—he’d always make it home, back to what was sure . His sure things included his integrity, his country, his freedom. His very own shoreline.
    He was a broken record about me finding my own shoreline, about preparing myself for the moments in life when I’d be tested. There were times when his training and instruction felt like he was dragging me out into the deep waters of what my mom not-so-affectionately called his Post-Traumatic Stress Paranoia. Both in his time as a Marine and a police officer, he witnessed violence that most people can’t even stand to watch on TV. So her words had merit, especially in the year leading up to his death. But now—his warnings and preparations didn’t seem so crazy. In fact, it seemed like he might have known something (or someone ) was coming.
    Which made me wonder where my shoreline was anymore.
    I grabbed my notebook and began OCD-organizing what was on my mind.
     
Problem 1: A girl is dead because I didn’t respect the warning. I let her die.
Dilemma 2: Whoever lured me to LeMarq is still toying with me. Trying to torment me. Or kill me.
Predicament 3: I lied to the police about following LeMarq, and somehow Detective