Page 39 of Under Fyre

“First, he hurt her dog. He stabbed little Arrow right in front of my daughter.”

I put a hand over my mouth. “Gideon, I’m so—”

“Then he stabbed her mommy too.”

He finally looks away and it’s like he pulled my spine out of my body. I flop against the back of the couch, fervently wishing I could go back in time and never ask him.

“He did other things to Emily. Things no daughter should ever have to witness happening to another human being, never mind her own fucking mother.”

Fyre gets up, goes to refill his glass. I gulp down the rest of mine, and he brings the bottle to top me up. He’s holding another half a glass of whiskey or scotch or whatever it is.

He twirls his glass, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees as he stares at the fire.

“Then he did all those things to my little Lizzy.”

The fire pops, and I flinch. Gideon’s eyes find me, latch on. “I came home just in time to catch a glimpse of his face. But I was so shocked at the bodies, attheirbodies, that I didn’t even think to give chase. He tried to shoot me, but Arrow came out of nowhere and bit his leg. Despite her own wounds, despite the pain she must have been suffering. Red kicked her until she let go, and then he was gone.”

His eyes are black pools, tar pits deep enough to drown dinosaurs.

“I let him get away, Charlotte. Emily, Elizabeth, they were already dead. I knew that the moment I saw their naked bodies. But I didn’t run after him. I just…”

He looks at the fire.

“I just let him get away.”

Chapter Eighteen

Fyre

Idrank too much. I realize it when I go to the bathroom and the living room sways as I walk. Arrow perks up her ears, but she doesn’t follow me. She knows the routine.

This always happens. I would have thought it would be different, having Charlotte here, but she just became a sounding board for my misery. She’s asleep on the sofa—I tucked a blanket over her shoulders and put a throw pillow under her head.

Now we’re both trapped in this pile of wood, in the snow, in the fucking woods.

Trapped with our demons.

Mine has a face. So does Charlotte’s. Does she see Peter Monroe as clearly as I see Red? She recognized his decapitated head when I showed her the photo I’d taken on my mobile.

That phone is long gone. I tossed it that same night, destroying it with a drill bit, disassembling it.

I’m careful. I like to think I’m in control.

But that’s a fucking laugh, isn’t it?

I’ve never been in control. Not back then, not now.

Perhaps, not ever.

I wash my hands in the sink, glaring at my reflection in the mirror. The water is icy. When I hold my hands under the faucet for long enough, my skin begins to burn.

Funny how that works.

If something is cold enough, it burns.

Not physically.

Mentally.

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