Page 85 of Her Name in Red
“Your job?” Maren repeats, reaching into her pocket. The switchblade appears in her hand with a soft click. “Is your job also visiting establishments like this while on duty? I wonder what Internal Affairs would think.”
The detective stiffens. “What do you want?”
“I want you to stop digging,” Maren says, trailing the tip of the blade along his collar, not hard enough to cut, just enough to make him sweat. “Destroy your notes. Forget you ever heard my name.”
The detective nods frantically. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you want. I'll back off, I swear.”
Maren's laugh is cold, empty. “Really? Just like that?” She presses the blade a little harder. “You can't possibly think I'm that naive. You'll be back to your investigation the second we let you go.”
His eyes dart between us, desperate. “No, I promise?—”
“Shhh.” She places a finger against his lips. “Don't insult me with lies.”
Her eyes flick to mine over the detective's shoulder, something intimate passing between us. “Thirteen's a good number, don't you think, golden boy?”
Thirteen. Unlucky for some. Lucky for me.
“Yeah,” I say, my mouth suddenly dry. “I wore it on my jersey for a reason.”
The detective looks confused for half a second before understanding dawns in his eyes. Pure terror replaces it instantly. He opens his mouth to scream, but I clamp my hand over it.
Maren nods at me, a silent communication we've perfected. I adjust my grip, exposing his throat. She steps closer; the knife glinting in what little light reaches us.
“I'll hold, you cut,” I whisper.
“Together,” she counters, sliding the knife into my free hand while keeping her fingers wrapped around mine.
Our eyes lock as we position the blade. There's something holy in this moment—her hand guiding mine, mine steadying hers. We're perfectly synchronized, two broken pieces fitting together in the darkness.
One fluid motion is all it takes. The detective jerks violently, his muffled scream dying as quickly as he is. Blood sprays in an arc that catches us both across the chest, warm and metallic. I don't flinch. Neither does Maren.
We hold him upright until the struggling stops, until the gurgling fades to silence. His body goes slack in my arms.
I lower him to the ground, watching the life drain from his eyes with a detached fascination. The red pool spreads beneath him, dark against the concrete.
I reach out, smearing a line of blood across her cheek with my thumb. She leans into the touch like a cat. Blood on both of us, binding us together in ways DNA analysts could trace but never understand.
“You got a little something.”
She laughs, that genuine sound again, and it hits me like a drug. I want to bottle it, keep it for the days when she goes quiet and distant.
“You're one to talk,” she says, gesturing at my face. “You look like you went bobbing for apples at a slaughterhouse.”
I grin, feeling the sticky wetness on my skin begin to cool. “It's a good look on me.”
“Everything's a good look on you,” she says, and there's something raw in her voice that makes my heart stutter.
“We should go,” I say, but I don't move yet. Can't tear my eyes away from her face.
We work quickly after that. Maren retrieves his wallet while I drag his body deeper into the shadows. We're not trying to hide him—just buying time.
We walk back to the truck, careful to stay in the shadows. The blood on our clothes is mostly hidden by the darkness and our black jackets, but we'll need to burn them later. I start the engine and pull away from the curb, time to go home.
“Do you think I'm cursed?” She asks suddenly, her voice so quiet I almost miss it.
I glance over, trying to read her expression. It's not what I expected—not after what we just did.
“No,” I say without hesitation. “You're mine.”
