Page 42 of Under Fyre

Putting the car into gear, I accelerate down the road, a small smile growing on my lips.

I have no idea if this will work, but there’s one thing Idoknow.

Soon, I’ll have DaddyNosBest in my sights.

Chapter Nineteen

Charlotte

Something’s wrong.

I stare out the kitchen window, but I can only see as far as the spotlights, and they barely touch the edge of the trees.

Fyre’s been gone forhours.

He goes out often—to chop wood, to take Arrow for a walk. I never go with him, even though he’s offered to take me a few times. It’s too cold out there. Usually, I watch him leave in his truck, staring until he disappears into the trees.

Today was no different.

He took his ax with him, but left Arrow behind. Chopping wood, I assumed.

But that was just after noon…and he’s not back yet.

Where the hell is he?

Did something happen?

What if he got hurt, and he’s lying half-submerged under a snowbank or something?

I told myself I’d wait until the sun was setting before panicking. But now it’s dark and I still can’t get up the courage to go looking for him.

It doesn’t help that I’m locked inside—I’d have to ram the door or break a window to get out.

Arrow doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest, and that worries me too. Is it usual for Fyre to disappear like this? I try and take my cue from her, wandering around the cabin going through the few knickknacks Fyre’s accumulated.

I find a framed photograph hidden in the back of a kitchen cupboard. I take it out, my heart beating a little faster when I realize who it is.

Fyre, so much younger than he is now, clean-shaven, hair neatly trimmed, a wide smile on his face. He has his arms around a beautiful blond-haired woman, his hand on the head of a little blond angel. She couldn’t be older than ten.

They’re standing in front of a two-story brick house. Not the one he took me to—perhaps this was where he lived in New York? I realize now that he must have moved because of what had happened with his family, not because it wastoo crowdedlike he’d said.

How much of what Fyre has told me has been a lie?

I shove the thought out of my mind and put the photo frame back where I find it.

Pouring myself a glass of wine, I flip idly through some of Fyre’s books on the bookshelf near the fireplace, but I’ve never been a big reader. And most of these are non-fiction titles about psychology, dry as burned toast.

Fyre didn’t start a fire before he left—he usually lights one as the sun starts setting—and the cabin is fucking freezing. Arrow watches me while I take a few sips of my wine, then the big brown dog gets up and stretches.

I can’t imagine how freaked out I’d be if I was still scared of Arrow and Fyre had left me locked up with her. But she’s actually kinda sweet, especially now that I know why she limps.

“Guess you’re hungry, huh?” I say.

Arrow’s ears prick up, her tail swishing slowly from side to side.

“Guess I have to feed you, huh?”

Arrow’s views on this are unclear. I put my wine down on the coffee table and head into the kitchen, hunting around for dog food.

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