Page 83 of Her Name in Red
“Even the parts that kill people?”
“Especially those parts.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “They're my favorite.”
I laugh, the sound wet and strange. My fingers curl into the fabric of his hoodie—my hoodie—as I try to anchor myself against the sensation of falling.
“I don't know how to do this,” I confess.
“Do what?”
“Let someone in. Be…whatever this is.”
Riggs' arms tighten around me. “We'll figure it out. Day by day.”
“What if I fuck it up?” The fear is real, pressing against my ribs. “What if I'm too broken for this?”
“Then we'll be broken together.” He presses his lips to my forehead, the gesture so tender it hurts.
Chapter 28
Riggs
Icheck my phone for the fifth time in twenty minutes, leaning against the concrete wall outside Maren's apartment building. The evening chill seeps through my coat, but I barely notice it. My mind's too busy replaying our last conversation, feeling the weight of her in my arms.
When she finally walks into view, something in my chest loosens. She looks surprised to see me standing there like some kind of stalker, her eyes narrowing slightly as she approaches.
“You could've waited inside,” she says, keys jingling in her hand.
I shrug. “I don't have a key. Wasn't about to break in and fuck up your door.” I flash her a grin. “It's the gentleman in me.”
She snorts, that little sound that's become one of my favorite things about her. “Such restraint. I'm impressed.”
Inside her apartment, she tosses her keys on the counter with more force than necessary, then turns to me with that flat, dangerous look in her eyes.
“My uncle called.”
She kicks off her boots, sending them flying across the room. “Our detective friend is getting too close. He's connecting dots that shouldn't be connected.”
“Shit.” I run a hand through my hair. “We should leave town. Tonight. We could be three states away by morning.”
“This is my mess.” She turns to face me, her expression resolute. “I'm not leaving it for my uncle to clean up.”
“Maren—”
“I need to finish it.” Her voice is steel. “My uncle's done enough for me. I owe him this.”
I know that look. Know there's no talking her out of it. Part of me is relieved. Because running would be smart, but staying? Staying means I get to see what she does next.
“Will you help me?” she asks.
“Always.” The word comes easy. Too easy, maybe.
The detective's name is John Harlow. Lives alone in a Craftsman-style house on the edge of town. Works late most nights. Stops at the same diner for coffee every morning at six-fifteen.
We watch him for three days. It's methodical work, taking shifts in my truck across from the police station, noting his routine. I tell myself I'm just the lookout, just the driver, just helping Maren tie up loose ends.
Something's off on day three.
“He's turning west,” Maren whispers, leaning forward in her seat. We're three cars back, headlights dimmed, my truck blending into traffic. “That's not his usual route home.”
