Page 19 of Her Name in Red
I pick up a small rock, about the size of my fist. Riggs watches silently as I stuff it down the front of the dead man's pants, wedging it securely against his crotch.
“Insurance policy,” I explain, patting the bulge with mock tenderness. “Helps them sink faster.”
With a grunt, Riggs swings the body once, twice, then releases it on the third swing, sending it arcing through the air. There's a moment of suspended animation, the corpse silhouetted against the night sky like some grotesque puppet with its strings cut. Then gravity takes over, and it plummets toward the rushing water below.
For a moment, the body bobs on the surface, face down, arms spread like a twisted crucifixion. Then the current catches it, dragging it under and away. Gone. Just like that.
I watch the ripples fade, feeling the familiar calm settle over me. The itch under my skin has subsided, replaced by a pleasant numbness that feels almost like peace. It never lasts long, but I've learned to savor these moments of quiet after the storm.
“How long have you been doing this?” Riggs asks, his voice cutting through my momentary tranquility. He stands close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
“Since that night with step-daddy dearest,” I say, the words coming out flat and matter-of-fact, like I'm discussing the weather and not the first time I killed a man.
Riggs' eyebrows lift slightly, but he doesn't flinch away from me like most people would.
“Any time my skin gets too itchy and I need to blow off some steam, I take out some trash,” I continue, keeping my voice deliberately light. “Like tonight. Clarence, or whatever the fuck his name was, couldn't understand that 'no' isn't foreplay.”
I glance sideways at Riggs, gauging his reaction. “People like that—who think they're entitled to whatever, whoever they want—they're just garbage walking around in human skin. I'm just...” I wave my hand vaguely, “…helping with waste management.”
I'll need a shower soon. The euphoria after a kill always fades quickly, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion that makes my limbs feel like they're filled with lead.
“Let me take you home,” he says, his voice low and rough. Not a question—a statement, like he's already decided.
I laugh, the sound harsh and brittle in the night air. “Absolutely not.”
“Maren—”
“You have Martinez with you,” I cut him off, watching his eyes widen slightly at the fact I know his friends are with him. “And he's got a big mouth. I don't think you want me killing your bestie.”
“They can take my truck, and I’ll go with you. It’s not a big deal.”
“I can get home just fine,” I continue, reaching up to scratch at my cheek. The dried blood flakes off under my fingertips, drifting away like macabre confetti. “I'm death, remember? Bloody Mary.” My lips curl into a smile that feels more like a wound. “So don't speak my name, Riggs Rhodes, unless you want me to come.”
His jaw tightens at that, a muscle jumping beneath the skin.
“What if I want you to come?” he asks, his voice dropping to a husky whisper.
The double entendre isn't lost on me. I tilt my head, studying him like he's a particularly interesting specimen pinned to a board. “Careful what you wish for, golden boy. I'm not one of your puck bunnies who'll drop their panties because you scored a hat trick.”
“I'm beginning to understand that.” He takes a step closer, invading my personal space in a way that would normally make me reach for my knife. But my hand stays at my side. “You're something else entirely, Maren Marino.”
Chapter 8
Riggs
Thursday afternoon finds me hunched over my laptop, trying to focus on my Sports Management assignment while my brain keeps replaying Friday night's events on an endless loop. The words on the screen blur together, meaningless academic jargon that can't compete with the memory of Maren's fishnets tearing under my teeth.
It's been almost a week, and I haven't seen her since. Not in the dining hall, not crossing the quad, not in the one class we supposedly share. It's like she's taking this fucking ghost shit seriously now.
I rub my eyes, exhaustion making them burn. I haven't been sleeping well. Every time I close my eyes, I see her—blood on her pale skin, that knife appearing in her hand like magic, the casual way she nudged a corpse with her toe.
My knuckles have mostly healed, the splits closing up into fresh pink scars. I flex my hand, feeling the pull of new skin. Another set of scars to add to my collection. Hockey has left me with plenty. A roadmap of violence etched onto my body.
I glance at the clock. Two hours until I need to be at the rink for the Little Jaguars practice. Coaching eight-year-olds how toskate and handle a stick is usually the highlight of my week, a reminder of why I fell in love with the game in the first place. Today, though, it feels like an obligation, something to endure rather than enjoy.
A knock at my door is followed immediately by it swinging open. Martinez strolls in without waiting for an invitation, because of course he does. Personal boundaries aren't really his thing.
“Sup, asshole,” he greets me cheerfully, taking a bite of the apple in his hand. The crunch seems unnaturally loud in the quiet of my room. “You look like shit.”
