Page 23 of Her Name in Red
I minimize the browser windows as Dr. Westfield glances in my direction. My screen now shows a half-assed attempt at notes, bullet points about cognitive dissonance that I'd copied before class. Fitting topic, considering the mental gymnastics I'm doing these days.
When I look back up, Maren has turned slightly in her seat. Just enough that I can see more of her face—the sharp cut of her cheekbone, the corner of her mouth. Is that the hint of a smile? My stomach drops to my feet when I realize she's looking at her phone, thumb scrolling through what looks like a news article. The same fucking article I was just reading.
She knows I'm watching. She always knows.
I lean forward, close enough that I could touch her if I wanted to. Close enough to smell her.
“You gonna keep ignoring me?” I whisper, low enough that no one else can hear.
She doesn't flinch, doesn't even blink. Just keeps scrolling through her phone like I don't exist. But I see the almost imperceptible tightening of her jaw, the slight change in her breathing.
“I know about Bryce and Tyler,” I continue, my voice barely audible over the drone of the lecture.
I see her freeze for a fraction of a second, like a predator who's just heard a twig snap. Then she locks her phone and slides it into her pocket in one fluid motion.
“What do you think you know, Riggs?” Her voice is barely a whisper, but it hits me like a fucking sledgehammer. She doesn't turn around, keeps staring straight ahead, but now I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers curl slightly against her thigh.
“I know enough,” I say, heart pounding so hard I'm surprised the whole lecture hall can't hear it. “I know they weren't the first. I know bad things happen to bad people.”
A soft sound escapes her—not quite a laugh, more like the hiss of air escaping a punctured tire. “Not enough if you ask me,” she murmurs, “but it's a bit of poetic justice, don't you think?”
Jesus fucking Christ. My mouth goes dry, and I have to swallow twice before I can speak again. I'm both terrified and exhilarated, like I'm standing at the edge of a cliff in a hurricane.
“Nobody's crying over them disappearing. But Maren? You’ve got a pattern.”
Now she does turn, just enough that I can see one eye regarding me with cold amusement. Her lips curl into something that's almost a smile but has too many teeth.
“You counting them like trophies now?” she asks. “Should I be flattered by your...attention to detail?”
The way she says “attention” makes my skin crawl with equal parts shame and desire. She knows exactly what I've been doing, how I've been following her, watching her. Of course, she knows.
“I'm not judging,” I say quickly. “I just want to understand.”
“No, you don't,” she says, turning back to face the front. “You want to own. There's a difference.”
Her words hit too close to home, slicing through my bullshit like a hot knife. I open my mouth to deny it, but what's the point? She sees through me like I'm made of fucking glass.
Dr. Westfield's voice rises as he reaches his conclusion, something about the next reading assignment that I don’t give a shit about. The rustle of notebooks and backpack zippers fills the hall as students begin packing up.
“You're going to get caught,” I whisper urgently. “Someone's going to connect the dots.”
Maren turns fully in her seat now, fixing me with those cold eyes. The hint of a smile playing at the corner of her mouth sends ice water through my veins.
“No one's connecting anything,” she says with quiet certainty. “Except you. And we both know why that is, don't we, Riggs?”
Chapter 10
Maren
Islip out of the lecture hall before Riggs can collect his shit. People part around me like I'm made of poison. I used to care about the whispers that follow me—poor Maren, what happened to her, such a shame—but now I find them oddly comforting.
The hallway outside is packed with students, a sea of backpacks and coffee cups and chatter. I duck into the alcove near the building's east exit, tucked behind a display case of academic trophies nobody gives a damn about. It’s the perfect vantage point. I can see the lecture hall doors without being seen, and can watch the stream of students thin out as they rush to their next classes or back to their dorms.
Riggs finally emerges, his movements jerky with frustration. He's got his bag slung over one shoulder as his eyes scan the crowd.
“Fuck,” he mutters, running a hand through his tousled hair. “Goddammit, Maren.”
A smile tugs at my lips. I shouldn't enjoy this as much as I do, but there's something intoxicating about watching him unravel. About being the one who makes him lose it. It's power, and aftereverything that happened, power is the only thing that feels good anymore.
