Page 81 of Her Name in Red
I lean against the counter, sipping my coffee and watching him scrape the charred remains into the trash. There are grocery bags on the counter that definitely weren't there yesterday—eggs, milk, flour, and a bottle of real maple syrup, not the corn syrup crap I usually buy when I bother to shop at all.
“When did you go shopping?” I ask, eyeing the bags. “I definitely didn't have pancake stuff.”
“You didn't have any food at all,” he mutters, wiping down the pan. “Unless you count hot sauce and expired yogurt as a balanced diet.”
“Hey, there was also beer.”
“Right. How could I forget the nutritional value of cheap beer?” He pours fresh batter into the pan, his movements more careful this time. “I went out while you were sleeping. Figured you'd be less likely to stab me for leaving if I came back with food.”
I hide my smile behind my mug. “Bold of you to assume I wouldn't stab you for other reasons.”
“Oh, I'm counting on it.” He flashes that infuriating grin over his shoulder. “Just not before breakfast.”
The kitchen fills with the smell of pancakes—real ones this time, not the burnt offerings from before. My stomach growls traitorously.
“There are blueberries in that bag,” he says, nodding toward one of the grocery sacks. “If you want to make yourself useful.”
“I don't recall asking for a short-order cook,” I grumble, but I set down my mug and reach for the berries.
“No, but your stomach did.” He flips a perfectly golden pancake. “Besides, I was hungry, and you're always a nightmare before you eat.”
I dump a handful of blueberries into the remaining batter. “I'm a nightmare after I eat too.”
I hop up onto the counter, letting my legs dangle as I watch him work. There's something unsettling about how comfortable he looks in my kitchen, like he belongs here. Like this is something we do.
“You don't have to cook for me,” I say, the words coming out more defensive than I intended.
“I know.” He slides a perfect golden pancake onto a plate. “I want to.”
It's weird having breakfast with someone who's seen me kill a man.
We sit at my tiny kitchen table, which has never been used for actual meals until now. The stack of pancakes between us is perfectly golden, dotted with bursts of blue. I pour an obscene amount of syrup over mine, watching it pool around the edges of my plate.
I’m halfway finished eating when my fork halts before it reaches my mouth. The food turns to sawdust on my tongue as something heavy settles in my chest.
I could tell him. Right now.
The thought ambushes me from nowhere, and suddenly I can't look away from him. My stepfather's face flashes through my mind—not the dead version with the knife in his throat, but the living one. The one with hands that took whatever they wanted. The one with the smile that no one else could see through.
Riggs cuts another piece of pancake, seemingly oblivious to my staring. But his eyes flick up briefly, meeting mine before returning to his plate. He doesn't ask or push.
The words are right there, building pressure behind my teeth. I could just say it. Just open my mouth and let it all spill out—the years of quiet terror, the locked bedroom doors that never stayed locked, the way my mother looked the other way. The night I finally snapped.
But if I start talking, will I be able to stop? And what happens when he finally sees all of me—not just the broken pieces he finds so fascinating, but the putrid, rotting core of who I am?
Riggs glances up again, his expression neutral save for the slight raise of one eyebrow.
“These are good,” I force myself to say instead, shoving another bite into my mouth.
“Surprising, right? Turns out I can do more than just burn shit.” He smirks, but his eyes linger on my face a beat too long.
He knows I was about to say something else. Of course he does. Riggs sees too much, always has.
“My stepfather used to make pancakes,” I hear myself say, the words slipping out before I can catch them. My heart hammers against my ribs as I watch Riggs go still.
“Yeah?” His voice is carefully casual, but his focus is absolute now.
I nod, pushing blueberries around my plate. “Sunday mornings. Big fucking production. I haven’t had pancakes in a long time, never wanted them. Well, until now. Thank you for changing that fucking memory for me.”
