28. Riggs
Riggs
I check my phone for the fifth time in twenty minutes, leaning against the concrete wall outside Maren's apartment building. The evening chill seeps through my coat, but I barely notice it. My mind's too busy replaying our last conversation, feeling the weight of her in my arms.
When she finally walks into view, something in my chest loosens. She looks surprised to see me standing there like some kind of stalker, her eyes narrowing slightly as she approaches.
“You could've waited inside,” she says, keys jingling in her hand.
I shrug. “I don't have a key. Wasn't about to break in and fuck up your door.” I flash her a grin. “It's the gentleman in me.”
She snorts, that little sound that's become one of my favorite things about her. “Such restraint. I'm impressed.”
Inside her apartment, she tosses her keys on the counter with more force than necessary, then turns to me with that flat, dangerous look in her eyes.
“My uncle called.”
She kicks off her boots, sending them flying across the room. “Our detective friend is getting too close. He's connecting dots that shouldn't be connected.”
“Shit.” I run a hand through my hair. “We should leave town. Tonight. We could be three states away by morning.”
“This is my mess.” She turns to face me, her expression resolute. “I'm not leaving it for my uncle to clean up.”
“Maren—”
“I need to finish it.” Her voice is steel. “My uncle's done enough for me. I owe him this.”
I know that look. Know there's no talking her out of it. Part of me is relieved. Because running would be smart, but staying? Staying means I get to see what she does next.
“Will you help me?” she asks.
“Always.” The word comes easy. Too easy, maybe.
The detective's name is John Harlow. Lives alone in a Craftsman-style house on the edge of town. Works late most nights. Stops at the same diner for coffee every morning at six-fifteen.
We watch him for three days. It's methodical work, taking shifts in my truck across from the police station, noting his routine. I tell myself I'm just the lookout, just the driver, just helping Maren tie up loose ends.
Something's off on day three.
“He's turning west,” Maren whispers, leaning forward in her seat. We're three cars back, headlights dimmed, my truck blending into traffic. “That's not his usual route home.”
I adjust my grip on the steering wheel. “Maybe he's grabbing dinner?”
But he passes the restaurants, the bars, the movie theater. Each turn takes us deeper into the part of town where streetlights are either broken or never existed in the first place. Buildings with boarded windows line the streets, graffiti marking territory boundaries more effectively than any map.
“The fuck is a detective doing in Crow's Corner?” I mutter, referring to the nickname for this neighborhood. Even the patrol cops travel in pairs here.
Maren's eyes gleam in the darkness. “Something he doesn't want his colleagues knowing about.”
I slow down as the detective's tail lights disappear around a corner. When we follow, his car is parked half on the sidewalk outside a building with a flickering neon sign that just reads GIRLS .
“Well, well,” Maren's voice has a lilting quality that makes my skin prickle. “Our straight-arrow detective has some extracurricular activities.”
“This changes things.” I kill the engine but leave the keys in the ignition. “No cameras here. No witnesses who'd talk. We could do it tonight.”
She turns to me; her face partially illuminated by the distant neon. “Better than our original plan.”
“No one's going to look twice at another body in this neighborhood,” I say, already reaching under my seat for the gun I keep there. “Especially a cop. They'll blame gang violence, drug deal, whatever.”
The detective gets out of his car, looks around nervously, then hurries inside. He's not wearing his badge or gun—at least not visibly.
“What do you think he's doing here?” I ask, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel.
Maren shrugs, but her eyes are alive now, calculating. “Could be a CI meeting. Could be getting his dick wet. Could be buying something he shouldn't.”
“Could be all three.”
That gets me a snort.
We don't have to wait long. Forty minutes later, the detective stumbles out, shirt buttoned wrong and hair mussed. He's alone and looks like a man with a guilty conscience.
“Showtime,” Maren whispers, her hand already on the door handle.
She's already out of the truck before I can even open my door. I follow, my footsteps nearly silent on the cracked pavement.
The detective fumbles with his keys, dropping them with a curse. Perfect. I'm on him before he can bend to retrieve them, one arm wrapping around his throat while the other pins his right arm behind his back.
“Don't make a sound,” I growl into his ear as he struggles.
Maren appears in front of him, her smile a slash of white in the darkness. “Detective. Fancy meeting you here.”
His eyes go wide with recognition just as I tighten my grip. He's not a small man, but fear makes him clumsy. I drag him backward, toward the narrow gap between buildings while Maren retrieves his fallen keys, tossing them playfully in her palm.
Once we're deep enough in the alley that the streetlight can't reach us, I slam him against the brick wall. His head makes a satisfying thud, and he groans.
“You know,” I say conversationally, keeping my forearm pressed against his windpipe, “I'm starting to think alleys are our special place. It’s like our very own date night.”
Maren's laugh echoes off the brick walls, genuine and delighted. It's a sound so at odds with what we're doing that the detective looks even more terrified.
“Oh my god,” she gasps between fits of laughter, doubling over. “It's true. It's so fucking true.”
I can't help grinning at her reaction. Even now, with a man's life literally in my hands, making her laugh feels like winning the lottery.
“I'm a romantic that way,” I say, adjusting my hold as the detective tries to twist free. “Always taking you to the finest establishments.”
Her laughter dies down, replaced an intensity I've come to crave. She steps closer to the detective, her head tilting slightly as she studies him.
“You've been asking a lot of questions about me,” she says, voice soft and dangerous. “About things that happened last year, this year, a month ago. You’ve got a hard-on for me.”
“I'm just doing my job,” he manages to get out, his voice strained against my forearm.
“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.”
She turns to look at me fully now, those gray-blue eyes searching my face. “That's not an answer.”
“It's the only one that matters.” I keep my eyes on the road, but I can feel her gaze burning into the side of my face. “Cursed implies you're a victim of something. You're not a victim, Maren. Neither am I.”
She's quiet for a long moment, and I wonder if I've said too much or not enough.
“You don't believe in fate?” she finally asks.
“I believe we make our own.” I turn onto her street, slowing the truck. “I believe I was meant to find you, but what we do now—that's our choice.”