Her Name in Red

Prologue

RIGGS

T he crunch of dead leaves under my boots is the only sound breaking the eerie silence of the deserted campus.

Jack-o'-lanterns leer at me from every porch, their flickering grins mocking my path.

Fuck 'em. I'm not here for another lame-ass party where drunk idiots paw at each other in shitty costumes.

I've got bigger things to do tonight.

Pulling my jacket tighter against the chill, my breath puffs out in little clouds as I walk. The bare trees loom over me like skeletons, their branches reaching out like bony fingers. Fitting for tonight, I guess.

My mind's racing, replaying the day my life ended over and over.

In Coach Harrington's office, the way his eyes raked over me, that slimy smile. “You want to stay on the team, don't you, Riggs?” His hand on my thigh, inching higher. I can still feel the ghost of his touch, making my skin crawl. I'd rather cut off my own dick than let that creep touch me.

I shudder, shoving the memory away. Fat lot of good it does me now. I'm off the team, out of school, spiraling down a black hole with no bottom in sight. All because I wouldn't play Coach's sick game.

The crisp air bites at my face as I stride past the student center, music thumping faintly from inside. For a second, I imagine all the puck bunnies in there, probably looking hot as hell in whatever costume they picked.

Acorns and twigs snap as I veer off the main path, cutting through a grove of rotting maples. I barely notice, my eyes locked on the house at the end of the street.

Harrington's house looms ahead, with perfect shutters and a manicured lawn. Fucker probably has the sprinklers set to go off if anyone steps on his precious grass. I march right up the middle of his driveway, not giving a shit about leaving muddy boot prints.

My fists clench at my sides as I approach. I don't know exactly what I'm going to do, but I know I can't let this go. He took everything from me, and for what? Because I wouldn't be his little plaything?

My heart's pounding as I reach the front door, but not from fear. From anticipation. I've been waiting months for this moment, reliving every second of that day in the locker room when Coach cornered me. When he made it clear what I'd have to do to keep my spot on the team.

I didn't just lose hockey that day. I lost my scholarship, my future. All because I wouldn't let that pervert fuck me.

Reaching for the doorknob, I half expected it to be locked. To my surprise, it turns easily in my hand. A grin spreads across my face. Looks like luck's finally on my side.

The entryway is dark, save for a faint glow coming from the windows. My eyes adjust quickly, taking in the pristine walls and fancy artwork. Typical rich asshole decor.

As I move further in, my boots silent on the plush carpet, I can't help but think about Maren.

Coach's stepdaughter. One of the hottest girls on campus, with these gray eyes that could cut right through you.

I overheard her in the cafeteria last week, complaining to her friends about how her mom was ditching her for the weekend to visit her grandparents.

No chance of running into her tonight. Not that I'd mind, exactly, but there’s no way she’s not at one of the Halloween parties. There's something about her that draws me in, even though I know I should stay the hell away. She's got dangerous written all over her.

I shake off thoughts of Maren and focus on why I'm here. The house is dead quiet, but I can see a sliver of light coming from under a door down the hall. My heart rate kicks up a notch, adrenaline flooding my system.

This is it. The moment I've been waiting for. Time to make that bastard pay for what he did to me.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. My hand drifts to the pocket of my jacket, feeling the weight of the object inside. A reminder of why I'm here, of what's at stake.

With slow, silent steps, I make my way down the hall, the plush carpet muffling any sound. The light under the door grows brighter as I approach.

I pause outside the door, my hand hovering over the knob. This is my last chance to turn back, to walk away and pretend none of this ever happened. But the memory of his hands on me, of the way he smiled as he threatened to ruin my life, makes my decision for me.

Pushing the door open, my heart pounds in my ears.

The room is empty. Fucking empty. But it's not the absence of Coach that hits me first—it's the wall of trophies gleaming in the soft lamplight.

Those goddamn St. James hockey trophies.

My blood boils as I step closer, my eyes scanning over the golden figures frozen mid-slap shot.

I see myself in every single one of those trophies. The countless hours of practice, the bruises, the sweat, the blood I spilled on that ice. All of it captured in these shiny pieces of metal that Coach gets to keep. That he gets to show off like they're his accomplishment.

My fingers curl around the knife in my pocket, pulling it out.

The blade glints in the low light, hungry for something to cut.

I drag it across Coach's polished mahogany desk, relishing the harsh screech of metal on wood.

A deep gouge mars the perfect surface, like a scar.

Let him have a permanent reminder of me, of what he's done.

I move toward the trophies, tempted to smash every last one. To hear the satisfying crash as they hit the floor, to grind the broken pieces under my heel. But I hold back. I'm not here to throw a tantrum.

Where the fuck is he?

I make my way back to the entryway, my mind racing. Where the hell is Coach? It's Halloween night—shouldn't he be handing out candy or some shit? Unless...

A chill runs down my spine as I remember the rumors about Coach and his “special” players. The ones who got extra attention, extra ice time. The ones who always seemed a little too eager to please. I never thought much of it until it happened to me.

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 face twisted 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.

She rises slowly from Coach's body, her movements fluid and graceful despite the blood dripping from her hands.

Her chest heaves with each breath, the bloodied Jaguars outfit clinging to her curves.

I can't tear my eyes away as she turns to face me, her gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my heart stutter.

Fuck, she's beautiful. Even like this—no, especially like this. Her hair is wild. The blood splattered across her face makes her look like some kind of avenging angel. Or maybe a demon. I can't decide which, and I don't really care.

For a moment, we just stare at each other.

She tilts her head, studying me. A drop of blood slides down her cheek, toward her mouth. I want to lick it off.

Maren breaks the silence, her voice low and husky. “Riggs Rhodes,” she says, a hint of a smirk playing at the corner of those blood-stained lips. “What the hell are you doing here?”

I can't stop staring at her. The way the blood glistens on her skin, how her chest rises and falls with each breath. She's like some kind of fucked-up work of art, all crimson and ivory in the dim light.

“I didn't know,” I manage to croak out. “About you, I mean. I thought...”

Something flickers in Maren's eyes—pain, maybe? Or understanding? It's gone before I can be sure. She steps closer, her bare feet leaving bloody footprints on the hardwood. I should be disgusted, but all I feel is a twisted kind of awe.

“Poor Riggs,” she purrs, reaching out to trail a blood-stained finger down my cheek. “Did the big bad coach try to touch you, too?”

I nod, unable to form words.

Maren leans in close, her lips brushing against my ear. “You were never here,” she whispers, her breath hot against my skin.

I shiver, my hands itching to grab her, to pull her against me. But I hold back, forcing myself to focus. “I was never here,” I repeat, the words feeling like a pact.

Nothing. I’m going to do nothing. I’m going to mind my own fucking business, and ding dong, the fucking rapist is dead.

I'll get my spot back, my scholarship back, and all of this will be a fucked up thing we don’t talk about.