Page 33 of The Fire Went Wild

I scramble away from the body, my chain dragging over his akimbo limbs, and then crouch down to the cuff around my ankle. When I slide the key into the lock, I hold my breath until I’m able to turn it, until I hear the clickof the lock falling out of place. The cuff snaps open.

And just like that, I’m free.

For a moment, all I can do is stare down at the open cuff. The weird feeling in my stomach intensifies, and I glance over at Jaxon. At hiscorpse. Because he’s dead.

I tell myself that I killed him in self-defense. He’s a murderer and a kidnapper. No one, not even in Louisiana, is going to fault me for that.

I jump to my feet and run.

I’m barefoot like I’ve been since I woke up in bed, but I have no idea where my shoes are. That’s the first thought I have, that I’m going to need shoes if I want to get out of here. And a car.Jaxon has a car. That was how he kidnapped me in the first place. I need to find the car keys. Shoes and car keys.

A phone, too. If I can find a phone, I can call for help.

I ran down the hallway, slamming open each of the closed doors. The rooms are furnished but look abandoned, the furniture pale with layers of dust. I’ve almost let my guard down when I check the third room, which is full of old bones.

I scream at the sight of them: hundreds of bones lined up neatly on an old twin bed and dark mahogany roll-top desk, the lid pushed up. Without thinking, I pull the door shut so hard the walls shudder.

Don’t worry about the bones. Shoes. Car keys. Phone.

The last door in the hallway is different from the others. It has the same heavy, old-fashioned furniture, but there’s no dust, and it’s immediately clear that this is where Jaxon sleeps. There’s a stack of books on the bedside table, a pile of clothes in the corner. My suitcase in the middle of the floor.

Car keys. Shoes.

I fling it open grab the spare tennis shoes I’d packed and put them on without socks. My purse isn’t there, though. Nor my cell phone or my ID.

I go over to the bedside table, fling open the drawers. Nothing useful.

“Car keys,” I whisper. If I can find his car keys, if I can find his car, I can drive to civilization and get some help.

I don’t see them in here, though, and it occurs to me they might be in his jeans pocket, a thought that makes the queasy, unsettling feeling in my stomach worse. No. I’ll check downstairs first.

I don’t want to look at his body again. At everything I did to it. Because seeing it—the red marks around his neck, the bloodshot, staring eyes, the purple skin—makes me feel weird.

Not bad, necessarily. Just… strange. And that’s unsettling all on its own.

I race downstairs. In the foyer, I immediately fling the front door open—testing it, I think, to make sure it’s not locked. It isn’t. But there’s also no sign of the keys by the door, either. Where else would you keep car keys? The kitchen, maybe?

I run through the creepy living room, refusing to look at the mummified corpses. The dining room is cleaned up, our dishes cleared away, the table wiped down. I shiver, seeing it all. Remembering how he claimed Edie is safe.

But that can’t be true, can it? He’s a murderer. A psychopath. He—assaulted me, technically, even if I’m not particularly bothered by it. Not after everything else he’s done.

There’s no reason to think he’s telling the truth about Edie.

In the end, it’s just another thought I push aside. Another thought that doesn’t matter, because the only thing that does matter is getting away from this terrible place.

The kitchen shows more evidence of our dinner than the dining room does. Dirty dishes are stacked high in the sink, a big silver pot sitting on the counter full of soapy water, the empty wine bottle. I sweep my gaze around, taking in the old-fashioned wallpaper and ancient Formica counters. This place looks like it was last updated in the 1960s.

No car keys.

“Fuck!” I really don’t want to be in the house another second longer, even though it’s the middle of the night and I know I shouldn’t go out into the Louisiana swamp by foot without even a flashlight. I swing around and check the kitchen drawers.

Well, now I have a flashlight.

I go out through the kitchen door, letting the screen slam behind me. A porch light kicks on when I step onto the little cement porch, flooding the overgrown yard with sallow, yellowlight—but also throwing the surrounding swamp into black shadows.

This is probably stupid. But there have to be other people around here somewhere. Jaxon brought me here in his car, which means there’s a road. I just have to follow it until I see another house.

I step into the tall grass, sweeping my flashlight around when I leave the sphere of light from the porch. It’s surprisingly chilly, and I’m still only wearing that yellow sundress, my arm prickling with goosebumps. It’s fine. I’m sure I’ll warm up soon enough.

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