Page 49 of Her Name in Red
“Maren, what the fuck?” Riggs sounds more intrigued than annoyed, his eyes searching my face.
I don't answer, just peer around the edge of the pillar. Harlow is still there, flipping through a small notepad, nodding at whatever the other person is saying. He's wearing the same ugly brown jacket he wore during all those interviews, the one with the coffee stain on the right sleeve. A year later, and he still hasn't bothered to get it dry-cleaned.
“Detective Harlow,” I mutter, risking another glance. The cop is still there, scribbling something in his little notebook. “The asshole who wouldn't leave me alone after what happened last year is out in the quad.”
Understanding dawns on Riggs' face.
God, how many hours did I spend in that police station answering the same questions over and over?
“Miss Marino!”
The voice booms across the quad, and I freeze. Students turn to look, conversations pausing as heads swivel in my direction. I consider pretending I didn't hear, but Harlow's already crossing the grass toward us, his ugly brown jacket flapping in the breeze.
“Shit,” I say, forcing my face into a neutral expression as I turn around. “Just let me handle this.”
Riggs shifts beside me, his body suddenly tense. I can practically feel the protective energy radiating off him, and it makes me want to punch him. The last thing I need is him playing white knight.
“Maren Marino,” Harlow says as he approaches, like he's confirming my identity to himself. His eyes are the same washed-out blue I remember, his mustache just as pathetic. “Thought that was you.”
“Detective,” I say, keeping my voice flat. “What a surprise to see you on campus.”
“Just following up on a few things.” He tucks his notepad into his pocket, his gaze sliding to Riggs and then back to me. “Got a minute to talk?”
Students are still watching, their eyes curious and hungry. Nothing like a little public spectacle to break up the monotony of a Tuesday morning.
“Actually, I'm late for class,” I lie smoothly, adjusting the strap of my bag. “But you can call my lawyer to set up an appointment if you need to. You remember his number correct?”
Harlow's mouth twitches beneath his mustache. “This won't take long. Just a few questions about your whereabouts a few weeks ago.”
I turn on my heel without another word, muscles tight as I stride away. My heart pounds in my chest, but I keep my faceimpassive, the mask I've perfected over the last year firmly in place. I can feel Harlow's eyes boring into my back, but I don't give him the satisfaction of looking over my shoulder.
“Miss Marino!” he calls after me. “We're not done here!”
I am. I'm so fucking done. He can kiss my ass and call my fucking lawyer.
“That's her…Bloody Mary…”
“…the girl who killed Coach Harrington...”
“…heard she stabbed him thirteen times...”
The voices blend together, but certain words cut through the white noise. Creepy. Bloody. Psycho.
Riggs is at my side in an instant, his longer stride easily matching mine. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle twitching beneath his skin.
“Ignore them,” I mutter, though I know it's useless advice. The whispers are getting louder, less careful. More vicious.
“They don't know what the fuck they're talking about,” Riggs growls, his hand brushing against mine. I pull away, shoving both hands in my pockets. Public displays of anything aren't exactly what I need right now.
We pass a group of sorority girls who fall silent as we approach, then immediately burst into dramatic whispers once we're a few feet past. One of them giggles, the sound high and cruel.
“Hey, Rhodes!” A male voice calls out from behind us. “Didn't know you were into dead girls!”
Riggs stops so abruptly I nearly trip over my own feet. I grab his arm, fingers digging into the solid muscle.
“Don't,” I warn, but it's like talking to a brick wall. His body is vibrating with tension beneath my hand.
“What did you just say?” Riggs turns slowly, his voice dangerously soft.
