Page 2 of Her Name in Red
Is that where he is tonight? With some poor freshman who doesn't know any better?
I move back through the house, my senses on high alert for any sign of life. I climb the stairs until the hallway stretches before me, a row of closed doors like a fucked-up game show. Behind door number one…nothing. Door number two…jack shit. I'm starting to wonder if he got tipped off somehow, if he knew I was coming.
As I reach the main bedroom, a flicker of movement catches my eye. I freeze, knife raised, ready to pounce. But it's just my own reflection in the full-length mirror at the end of the hall. I look like a goddamn psycho, wild-eyed and tense, gripping that knife like it's my lifeline.
Maybe I am a psycho. Maybe Harrington turned me into one.
I'm about to turn away when I hear it. A faint sound, barely audible, is coming from the far end of the hallway. My breath catches in my throat as I strain to listen. There it is again. A low, muffled voice. Coach's voice.
My fingers tighten around the knife as I creep towards the sound, every nerve in my body on high alert. The voice gets clearer as I approach the last door on the left. It's slightly ajar.
“You ungrateful little bitch,” Coach snarls, his words dripping with hate. “After everything I've done for you.”
My stomach churns as I inch closer, pressing my back against the wall. What the fuck is going on in there?
“Done for me?” Another voice responds, and my blood runs cold. It's Maren fucking Marino. What the hell? “You mean after everything you've done to me, you sick fuck.”
I can barely breathe as I edge closer to the crack in the door, my heart pounding so hard I'm afraid they'll hear it.
“Watch your mouth,” Coach growls. “Or I'll give you something to really cry about.”
“Go ahead,” Maren spits back, her voice trembling with rage. “It's not like you haven't before, you fucking rapist. You're nothing but a sicko. A pathetic, limp-dicked rapist who can't get it up without abusing someone.”
The word hangs in the air like a gunshot. Rapist. My mind reels, trying to process what I'm hearing. Coach and Maren? His own stepdaughter?
I peer through the crack in the door, my vision tunneling as I take in the scene before me. Coach looms over Maren, his facetwisted in rage. She's backed against the wall, her eyes blazing with fear and defiance. There's a bruise forming on her cheek, and her lip is split and bleeding. She's in a tattered cheerleader costume, the skirt hiked up from where Coach has his hand.
“You little slut,” Coach hisses, grabbing her arm roughly. “You think anyone would believe you over me? I own this town. I own you.”
Maren jerks away from him, her eyes darting around the room like a trapped animal. That's when she spots me. Our eyes lock for a split second, and I see a flash of...something.
Before I can react, Coach's hand shoots out, grabbing a fistful of Maren's hair. She cries out in pain as he yanks her head back.
“I've had enough of your mouth,” he snarls, his other hand fumbling with his belt buckle. “Time to remind you of your place. So fucking unappreciative.”
Maren laughs, a cold, brittle sound that sends chills down my spine. “What should I thank you for? Raping me since I was fifteen? Pimping me out to your little sports buddies? Oh yeah, I'm so fucking grateful.”
I can't believe what I'm hearing. My mind reels, trying to process it all.
Before I can even think of moving, Maren lunges. She grabs a knife off her dresser, her fingers wrapping around the handle like it's an extension of her arm. Coach doesn't even see it coming. He's too busy trying to pull out his limp dick.
The first stab takes him by surprise. The blade sinks into his chest with a sickening squelch. Coach's eyes go wide, his mouth opening in a silent 'O' of shock.
Maren doesn't stop. She brings the knife down again and again; her face a mask of fury and pain. Blood sprays, painting her cheerleader outfit in crimson streaks. Coach tries to grab her wrists, but his pants are tangled around his ankles. He stumbles, crashing to the floor with a heavy thud.
Maren follows him down, straddling his body as she keeps stabbing. Her movements are frenzied, almost robotic. Stab. Stab. Stab. I count them in my head, unable to look away from the grotesque scene.
One. Two. Three. Coach's struggles grow weaker.
Four. Five. Six. Blood pools on the hardwood floor, seeping into the cracks between the boards.
Seven. Eight. Nine. Coach's eyes are glassy, staring at nothing.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Maren's chest heaves with exertion, her hair wild around her face.
Thirteen. The final stab. The butcher knife clatters to the floor as Maren releases it, her hands shaking.
Thirteen. The same number as my jersey. Unlucky for some, but not for Maren or me.
