Page 72 of Her Name in Red
“How the fuck,” Maren finally says, her voice hoarse but gaining strength, “did you know where I was tonight?”
The question snaps me out of my trance. I look up at her face, illuminated by the harsh light from my phone. Her expression has shifted, sharpness returning to her eyes.
“And why the fuck did you show up?” she continues, pushing herself more upright against the wall. “Where's your sorority girlie that was hanging all over you?”
I blink, lowering my phone as I rise to my feet. Jealousy. That's what this is. The realization sends a surge of satisfaction through me.
“I put a tracking app on your phone.”
“You put a fucking tracker on me?” Her voice is deadly quiet.
“I needed to know where you are,” I say, the justification sounding pathetic even to me. “You do dangerous shit, Maren. You don't answer texts. You show up with bruises you won't explain.”
Her laugh is like broken glass. “So you decided to stalk me? Jesus fucking Christ, Riggs.”
“Turnabout's fair fucking play,” I snarl, tucking myself back into my pants while maintaining eye contact with her. “You want to talk about stalking? You check my socials. Look at every fucking post I'm tagged in. And I don't give a shit. You want my location on your phone? Fucking take it.”
I press my thumb against my phone to unlock it, then navigate to the location settings. “Here,” I growl, activating my location and sharing with her contact. “Now you can watch me twenty-four-seven. See where I go. Who I'm with.”
Her eyes widen as she stares at the screen, seeing her name appear on my approved tracking list.
“I'm not hiding shit from you, Maren. Stalk me, baby. Track me. Follow me home.” I lean in, my lips brushing her ear.
Her breath catches. “You're insane.”
“Yeah?” I mouth against her neck. “Wonder who made me that way.”
Chapter 24
Riggs
My alarm screams at me. I swat blindly at my phone, knocking it to the floor where it continues its digital death throes. Fucking hell.
Last night rushes back in technicolor horror. The way his eyes bulged as the knife slid in, Maren's body against the wall, the blood on my hands that I scrubbed raw in the shower when I finally made it home.
I killed a man.
The thought should break me, but all I feel is a dull throbbing behind my eyes from too little sleep. I fumble for my phone, squinting at the screen. Half past seven in the morning. Practice starts at eight.
I've got three missed calls from Coach Calloway and a text that just tells me this is my last chance.
A year ago, that message would have sent me into a panic spiral. My scholarship, my future, my whole fucking identity on the line. Now? I stare at it with the emotional investment of someone reading a cereal box.
Funny how stabbing a guy in the throat puts shit in perspective.
I drag myself upright, wincing as my muscles protest. My shoulders are a mess of scratches and bite marks. The mirror reveals bruises blooming along my neck and collarbone—Maren's handiwork. I prod at one particularly dark mark and feel a sick thrill run through me.
My phone buzzes.
My Nightmare
Are you dead?
Still breathing, nightmare. You?
Alive unfortunately, but still pissed.
I snort. Of course she is.
