Page 82 of Her Name in Red
I stare at the syrup pooling on my plate, watching the light catch in its amber depths. My fingers tighten around my fork, and I notice the tremor in my hands before I can hide it.
“It wasn't just pancakes he did on Sundays.”
Riggs goes completely still. The kitchen seems to shrink around us; the air growing heavy. He sets down his fork with careful precision.
“Luke, he had this whole routine.” My voice sounds strange to my own ears, like it's coming from somewhere else. “Pancakes in the morning. Football in the afternoon. And me, whenever he wanted.”
I can't look at Riggs as the words start spilling out. It's like a dam breaking, years of filthy water finally finding release.
“It started when I was fifteen. Little touches at first. Nothing my mother would notice at all, or maybe she just didn't want to. He'd call me his 'special girl.'” The words taste like battery acid on my tongue. “Said I was asking for it, wearing those shorts, looking at him that way. I wasn't. I fucking wasn't.”
The syrup on my plate blurs as my eyes burn. I blink hard, refusing to cry.
“He had friends. Sports buddies. Good ol' boys with wedding rings and daughters my age. They'd come over to watch games,drink beer. And sometimes...” My throat closes up. I force myself to swallow. “Sometimes Luke would send my mother on errands. And then he'd send me upstairs with one of them.”
I hear Riggs' sharp intake of breath, but I can't stop now.
“Three years. Three fucking years before I figured out how to disappear inside my head while it happened. Before I learned to lock everything away where it couldn't touch me.”
My hands are shaking so badly that the fork clatters against the plate. I set it down, pressing my palms flat against the table.
“The night I killed him, he'd invited two of them over. Said it was time I learned to 'handle more than one at a time.’”
The silence that follows feels endless. I finally look up, bracing for disgust or pity or worse.
Instead, I find something I don't recognize. Something raw and terrible.
“Say something,” I whisper.
Riggs' jaw works, the muscle ticking beneath his skin. When he finally speaks, his voice is dangerously soft.
“I should have been the one to kill him.”
It's not what I expected. Not sympathy or horror or questions about why I didn't tell someone, run away, fight back sooner—all the useless things people say when they hear stories like mine.
“If I'd known...” He stops, his knuckles white where he grips the edge of the table. “I would have made it last longer.”
A laugh bubbles up from my throat, breaking into jagged pieces. I look at him, really look at him, and what I see makes my breath catch.
He's shaking, his face a mask of rage, but not at me. For me.
“You're the first person I've ever told,” I admit, voice barely above a whisper. “The whole thing.”
Riggs stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. For one heart-stopping moment, I think he's leaving. Instead,he circles the table and pulls me to my feet, wrapping his arms around me so tightly I can barely breathe.
I stiffen at first, the contact overwhelming, but then something inside me cracks open. I press my face against his chest, inhaling the scent of him as his heartbeat thunders against my ear.
“You still want me after that?” The question slips out, small and broken.
His hand tangles in my hair, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. Those eyes burn into mine, fierce and certain.
“I want all of you. Every part of you, but especially the parts you think are ruined.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. I try to look away, but he holds me firmly, refusing to let me hide.
“I'm not some fucking project you can fix,” I warn him, my voice raw.
“Good. I don't want to fix you.” His thumb traces the curve of my cheek. “I just want you. Exactly as you are.”
