Page 50 of The Fire Went Wild

“I did kill him,” Jaxon says plainly. “A few weeks ago.”

I’m not sure how to respond to that.

“He was a drug dealer,” he adds. “Heroin. PCP. He was probably involved with human trafficking, too. Those guys usually are.”

“Is that why you killed him?”

Jaxon looks at me, his eyes as deep and strange as the ocean. “No.”

He turns away, leaving me standing there, struck dumb. For a minute all I can do is gape at him as he picks his way across the yard, heading toward the body that matches the balaclava-covered head. He bends over, studying it like he did the first.

“Then why?” I call out.

Jaxon hears me. I can tell by the way he pauses, the way he tilts his head toward me. But he doesn’t answer.

I sigh, exasperated, and stalk over the grass, taking a wide berth around the first body. This other body is all akimbo from where Jaxon threw it.

“Stop doing this,” I tell him. “This mysterious psycho killer shit.”

Jaxon lifts his gaze to meet mine. “I am a mysterious psycho killer.”

I do not let myself be frightened or charmed by that, even though I want to do both, simultaneously. “What the fuck is going on?” I ask him. “Why did you kill that guy? The drug dealer? And why—” I stop, swallow against the dryness in my throat. “I’d like some answers about the other thing,” I finally say. “The—” I gesture toward the house, looming up behind him. The window into the room where he kept me.

Jaxon makes a strained coughing sound. “Right,” he mutters. “Yeah. That one.” He kicks at the body, making the arms flop around. “You’re gonna think I’m crazy.”

“I already think you’re crazy.”

He sighs. “Fair enough.” Then he jerks his head toward the house. “You want some coffee? I’ll make you some coffee. And we can?—”

“Tell me!” My voice rings out through the crisp, cool morning and echoes across the swamp, loud enough that a cloud of blackbirds erupts against the pale sky. “What the fuck! Is going on!”

Jaxon at least has the wherewithal to look sheepish. “I will!” he says. “I just thought you might want some coffee on the porch while I did. It’s been a long night.”

I want to be pissed at him, I really do. But there’s a sheepish sweetness to the way he just offered me coffee that brings me up short. It’s such a contrast to how he fucked me in the woods. To what he did to those men.

He keeps charming me, and I don’t like it.

“Fine,” I snap. “Make me a coffee.” I pause. “It better be sweet. No cream, though.”

He grins. “One sweet black coffee, coming up.”

I trudge over to the house, trailing behind him. It’s my first time really getting a good look at the place: a big, towering Victorian mansion, the dark paint peeling off in patches. It even has a turret jutting up toward the sky. It also has a wrap-around screened-in porch, something I didn’t notice when I raced out of the back door earlier. It’s actually kind of nice, the porch. There’s a swing and some cozy-looking wicker chairs. I collapse down on the swing. In the middle, though, so Jaxon can’t sit beside me.

He disappears inside, and I wait numbly on the swing, pushing it back and forth with my feet, staring through the dark mesh at the overgrown yard. I don’t let myself think about anything. I just go empty.

A few minutes later, Jaxon emerges from the house, the screen door slamming into its frame behind him. He’s carrying two pretty porcelain mugs, the contents steaming in the damp, cool air.

“I put like three spoonfuls of sugar in here,” he says as he hands me coffee.

I breathe in the steam. Feeling the warmth of the coffee on my hands makes me realize just how cold I am. The morning is damp and chilly. Chillier than you’d expect from Louisiana.

Jaxon drags one of the wicker chairs across from the swing and sits down. Takes a drink of his coffee.

We stare at each other.

“Start talking.” Then I sip my coffee, too.

It’s not exactly the Turkish coffee I drank back in California, but it’s good. Strong and sweet.Just like Jaxon, I think for half a second before I chide myself for being stupid.

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