Page 22 of Her Name in Red
She doesn't acknowledge him, just continues her circular pattern, each stroke of her skates precise and controlled. I've never seen her on the ice before. Never even heard a rumor that she could skate. But watching her now, it's obvious she's spent years on blades. There's a fluidity to her movements that can't be faked.
She ignores me completely now, like I'm not even there. Like she didn't just catch me staring at her like some lovesick fucking idiot. She picks up speed, her movements shifting from thoselazy circles into something with purpose. Something that makes my breath catch in my throat.
I've spent my life on the ice. Learned to skate before I could properly run. Spent countless hours crashing into boards and other players, turning the pristine white surface into a battlefield. But what Maren's doing isn't a battle.
She launches into a spin, her body a blur of black and gray against the ice. Her arms pull in tight to her chest, and she's spinning so fast I can barely track her face. Then suddenly her arms open, one leg extends, and she slows like she's controlling time itself. The edge of her skate carves the ice with precision, leaving perfect arcs in her wake.
This is something raw and painful and beautiful.
Her face is different now. The mask has slipped, or maybe she's forgotten I'm here.
She flows into a jump, her body twisting in the air—once, twice—before landing on one foot, the other leg extended behind her in a graceful arc. The sound of her blade hitting the ice echoes through the empty rink. I find myself holding my breath, waiting for her to fall, but she doesn't even wobble.
It hits me then. This is what Maren looks like when she's not pretending. When she's not playing at being a ghost or a monster or whatever the fuck she thinks she is. This is Maren, stripped down to her essence.
Her movements tell a story I can't quite read. There's anger in the way she attacks certain jumps, launching herself into the air like she's trying to escape gravity itself. There's grief in the slow, reaching motions of her arms, like she's trying to hold on to something or someone that's no longer there. And there's a wild kind of joy in the speed she builds, racing around the perimeter of the rink like she's outrunning demons.
I've never seen anything so fucking beautiful in my life.
Her ponytail has come loose, dark strands of hair whipping around her face as she spins. There's a sheen of sweat on her skin now, making it glow under the harsh fluorescent lights. She's breathing hard, chest rising and falling rapidly.
Then, slowly, deliberately, Maren brings her hand to her mouth. Her eyes never leave mine as she presses her fingers to her lips. She's blowing me a kiss.
The gesture is so unexpected, so fucking surreal coming from her, that for a moment I think I've imagined it. But there it is—floating across the ice between us, this invisible token that feels heavier than it should.
Without thinking, I reach up and close my fist in the air, catching it. I feel like a complete fucking idiot as soon as I do it—like some lovesick teenager in a cheesy movie—but the smile that spreads across her face makes it worth the embarrassment.
My phone buzzes in my pocket—probably Martinez wondering where the fuck I am—but I ignore it. I'll deal with his shit later, his knowing looks and crude comments. Right now, I just need a minute to process what I've seen. What I've been allowed to see.
I shove my feet into my sneakers, not bothering to tie the laces. I grab my hockey bag and glance once more at my little nightmare taking up the entire rink, the one place I feel at home no matter what’s going on.
If I thought I had even a chance of stopping this obsession I’ve developed for her, this just stopped that entire thought.
I want her, and I’m going to have her, in any way she allows.
Chapter 9
Riggs
The lecture hall is stifling, packed with bodies and the hum of laptop fans. Dr. Westfield drones on, but I'm not paying attention to a single fucking word. How could I, when Maren is sitting right in front of me, her dark hair falling like a curtain around her face?
She hasn't acknowledged me once today. Slipped into class two minutes before it started, sat in her seat and has been staring straight ahead ever since. I can only see the sharp line of her jaw, the curve of her neck where it disappears into the oversized black St. James hoodie she's wearing. My eye twitches thinking about the hoodie because she better have bought it oversized like that. If it belonged to a guy I’ll burn it off her. If she’s going to wear a guy’s clothes, they damn well better fucking be mine.
Fuck, I am losing it over this girl.
I should be pissed about the silent treatment, but honestly? I'm just relieved to finally lay eyes on her without creeping around campus. If she hung out with the other cheerleaders, then I would see her every fucking day. I want to see her every day. I want her to watch me play.
Martinez called me pathetic this morning when I practically sprinted across campus to make it to class on time. “You're turning into a fucking stalker,” he said, and maybe he's right.
My laptop screen glows with something that definitely isn't class notes. I've got a browser window open to a local news site, another to the campus police blotter, and a third to a missing persons database I probably shouldn't have access to. Martinez's cousin works with the county sheriff's office, and his password security is about as tight as his morals.
I've been piecing this shit together for days, finding patterns in the static. Six men have gone missing in the area over the past two years. Not all of these are connected to Maren, but at least one is; I just know it. Two college students from nearby St. Andrews, one from our own campus, and three locals.
They vanished without a trace, leaving behind nothing but unanswered questions. The kind of disappearances that make the evening news for a week before fading into the background noise of everyday tragedy.
I click through to an article about the most recent one, a twenty-one-year-old business major named Tyler Creighton. His student ID photo shows a smug-looking guy with gelled hair and the kind of smile that makes your skin crawl. He was last seen leaving a bar called Whiskey River on the edge of town, reportedly drunk and belligerent after being rejected by several women throughout the night.
The article mentions a brief physical altercation with a bouncer before Tyler stormed off into the night. Classic asshole behavior. He never made it back to his apartment.
