Page 23 of The Fire Went Wild

His eyes turn black and flinty. But he’s going to know I’m lying when he sees me shoveling it into my mouth, which I’m rapidly failing atnotdoing.

“Try the biscuits,” he says.

“Stop fishing for compliments.”

He scowls at me, but he also looks embarrassed, in his way. Busted. However, I do try a bit of biscuit, and I’m not particularly surprised when it’s flaky and buttery and absolutely perfect.

How the hell did I get kidnapped by a psycho who’s so good at cooking?

“Let’s talk about Edie,” I tell him firmly, reaching for my wine. That’s good, too. I don’t know much about wine, but even I can tell it’s not the cheap vinegary shit I always pick up at Aldi. “I’m eating. You promised.”

“Yes, but you have to ask the right questions.” He eats slowly, watching me the entire time, like he’s afraid I’m going to spring away and try to escape. Which is fair. The thoughthasoccurred to me. But I need my energy if I’m going to escape, and besides…

I do want to find out about Edie. That’s why I came to Louisiana.

“Fine.” I have no idea what he means by the “right questions,” but I figure I’ll just throw things at him until I find something. “So you didn’t kill her.”

“No.”

“Do you know who did?”

Jaxon tilts his head at that, and the loose lock of his hair brushes across the top of his shoulder. “Not the right question.”

I stab a forkful of salad because I know I can’t stab him without getting tackled to the dusty wooden floor. I try again. “Who killed Edie?”

“Not the right question.”

“This isn’t fair.” I glare across the table. He just keeps eating. “You said you’d talk about her.”

“I also said you need to ask the right questions about her.” He lifts his gaze to meet mine. His eyes seem impossibly blue in the dim, hazy light of the chandelier.

I take another few bites of étouffée to hide my irritation. Drink some more wine, enough to drain the glass. Jaxon pushes the bottle toward me and I don’t even think twice about it, I’m so focused on my food and on trying to get him to talk. I pour another glass. A much heavier glass than what he poured me.

“Fine.” I take a deep breath. “What does that symbol I showed you have to do with anything?”

That one’sdefinitelythe wrong question. I can see it even before he answers, because storm clouds crowd across his expression, and he squeezes his spoon tight in his fist like it’s a knife. “That’s?—”

“Not the right question. Yeah, I figured as much.” I stir my étouffée around. What little of it is left.Think, Charlotte. Think this through.

Jaxon says he didn’t kill Edie. Actually, he said he didn’t do anything to her. I scrape my spoon against my bowl, the porcelain singing out. I look up at him, watching me, eyes guarded, and something catches in my throat. A possibility I haven’t let myself even consider because I want it so badly to be true.

I take a deep breath. The words barely come out a whisper.

“Is Edie still alive?”

Jaxon’s face cracks into a wide, devious smile. His teeth glean. “Now that,” he says, “is the right question.”

My body thrums. “Is she?”

“She is.”

Suddenly I’m not hungry anymore. I don’t care about food. I don’t even care that Jaxon’s keeping me a prisoner in his creepyold house. Everything tunnels in until it’s just me and Jaxon and my pounding hope.

“Where is she?”

“Not for me to say.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

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