9. Riggs
Riggs
T he lecture hall is stifling, packed with bodies and the hum of laptop fans. Dr. Westfield drones on, but I'm not paying attention to a single fucking word. How could I, when Maren is sitting right in front of me, her dark hair falling like a curtain around her face?
She hasn't acknowledged me once today. Slipped into class two minutes before it started, sat in her seat and has been staring straight ahead ever since. I can only see the sharp line of her jaw, the curve of her neck where it disappears into the oversized black St. James hoodie she's wearing. My eye twitches thinking about the hoodie because she better have bought it oversized like that. If it belonged to a guy I’ll burn it off her. If she’s going to wear a guy’s clothes, they damn well better fucking be mine.
Fuck, I am losing it over this girl.
I should be pissed about the silent treatment, but honestly? I'm just relieved to finally lay eyes on her without creeping around campus. If she hung out with the other cheerleaders, then I would see her every fucking day. I want to see her every day. I want her to watch me play.
Martinez called me pathetic this morning when I practically sprinted across campus to make it to class on time. “You're turning into a fucking stalker,” he said, and maybe he's right.
My laptop screen glows with something that definitely isn't class notes.
I've got a browser window open to a local news site, another to the campus police blotter, and a third to a missing persons database I probably shouldn't have access to.
Martinez's cousin works with the county sheriff's office, and his password security is about as tight as his morals.
I've been piecing this shit together for days, finding patterns in the static.
Six men have gone missing in the area over the past two years.
Not all of these are connected to Maren, but at least one is; I just know it.
Two college students from nearby St. Andrews, one from our own campus, and three locals.
They vanished without a trace, leaving behind nothing but unanswered questions. The kind of disappearances that make the evening news for a week before fading into the background noise of everyday tragedy.
I click through to an article about the most recent one, a twenty-one-year-old business major named Tyler Creighton.
His student ID photo shows a smug-looking guy with gelled hair and the kind of smile that makes your skin crawl.
He was last seen leaving a bar called Whiskey River on the edge of town, reportedly drunk and belligerent after being rejected by several women throughout the night.
The article mentions a brief physical altercation with a bouncer before Tyler stormed off into the night. Classic asshole behavior. He never made it back to his apartment.
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?”