Page 38 of Under Fyre

He can’t blame me for that. He told me to trust him…what better way to prove that he’s trustworthy than by telling me the truth?

It would be a refreshing change.

He comes back with a goblet of red wine for me and a tumbler of hard liquor for himself.

“Come.”

I move hesitantly to where he pats the sofa cushion. When I sit, we’re close enough that the side of our legs touch.

“You asked why I became a therapist,” he says quietly.

I turn to face him, drawing my legs under me.

He’s acting so different. Watching the flames, his gaze is distant, like he can see right through the past. He obviously doesn’t like what he sees. His mouth turns down at the corners, his eyelids hooded.

He seems a completely different person from the man who broke into my house and had me pinned to the wall. Definitely nothing like the person who fucked me in his classroom.

How many sides are there to Professor Fyre?

“Home invasion, five years ago. I wasn’t there, but I should have been.” He takes a big sip of his drink. No ice, and half the glass is full. It seems like a lot, but maybe this is his drink of choice when he’s out here in the snow and the ice and the soldier-straight pines.

“Daniel Geller. Said he was from our insurance company. Knew my wife’s name, had a card from the real company with his name printed on it.”

“His real name?” I ask in a hush.

Fyre drops his head, lets out a bitter laugh. “No. Emily—my wife…she was always too trusting for her own good. His real name is Red. Red Hutchins. The police ID’d him off my description and a fingerprint he left at the scene. His rap sheet is as long as my fucking arm.”

Red?

I don’t like the sound of that. It makes my womb ache and burn. Probably because it reminds me of blood, and I’m expecting there to be a lot of blood in this story.

Will it really be worth it, just to sate my curiosity?

Of course it will. Something made Fyre the way he is, and if this isn’t it…?

“He killed your wife,” I say, when Fyre doesn’t carry on speaking.

Another laugh, this one almost rueful. “Yes, Charlotte. He killed her.” Another big sip of his drink. It’s almost finished now. “He killed my daughter too.”

There’s a stabbing pain in my belly. I flinch, draw my legs up, hug them. Sometimes it helps with that ephemeral pain, but not always.

It’s like I’m witnessing a car accident. Not the aftermath, when the paramedics are there, and everyone’s already dead. I’m watching it happen inreal-time. Screaming brakes. Metal ripping through flesh. The fairy-dust tinkle of glass hitting the tarmac.

“But only after.”

My throat goes dry. I take a swallow from my glass, realize I’m trying to drink it all, and hastily pull it away from my lips.

Fyre glances over at me, and our eyes lock.

That magnetic gaze keeps me pinned where I huddle, too terrified to move but dreading what’s coming.

“Red likes watching young girls cry. Their tears spilling down their cheeks provides him with some kind of sexual gratification.”

Fyre drinks without breaking eye contact and puts his empty glass on the coffee table without looking away.

“Do you want to know how he made my little Lizzy cry?” His voice drops deep, becomes rough.

“No.” I shake my head, but he’s not taking any requests. Fyre has gone to his own personal hell.

---