Page 6 of The Fire Went Wild

It’s been almost twenty-four hours since I saw the symbol on CrimeSolvers. In that time, I paid an exorbitant amount of money for a plane ticket, shoved my stuff haphazardly in a suitcase, and came here, to this place, with one $25,000-limit credit card, a printout of my favorite photograph of Edie—currently taped to the rental car’s dashboard—and no real plan.

I’m also starving. Food wasn’t exactly on my mind in the whirlwind of getting to the airport, and all I’ve eaten today was an overpriced croissant from the terminal before I flew out of San Jose. There doesn’t seem to be anything on the highway leading to Pellerin Parish, though. Just a few run-down gas stations that don’t even look open.

So when I see a tattered billboard for some place called Bandit’s Diner, I’m thrilled. The sign says it’s fifteen miles downthe road, which should put me in Pellerin Parish. I press a little harder on the gas. I can get something to eat and maybe find out the best place to stay.

It takes about twenty minutes before I reach the diner, and I see it immediately: a big shiny chrome building glittering on the side of the road, a faded neon sign with a pink arrow pointing at the gravel parking lot, and another big white sign that reads, simply,Hamburgers.

I’d eat anything at this point. I certainly wouldn’t say no to a hamburger.

Still, when I park, I don’t get out right away. I catch sight of Edie’s picture, and then I can’t stop staring at it and thinking about her. Thinking about the picture itself. I took it about six months ago, so three months before Scott tried to kill her and she fled to her doom. We’d gone down to Twin Lakes to surf, and I brought my waterproof camera and snapped a bunch of shots while Edie and I were splashing around in the waves together. Edie didn’t know what I was doing; she never liked having her picture taken. But I managed to catch her gazing out over the waves, smiling like she was happy, and the way the sun caught on her hair that day turned it kind of coppery. After the shit happened with Scott, I used the picture as a reference for a painting that I was going to give her as a divorce gift.

Needless to say, I haven’t touched that painting in months.

“I’m going to find out what happened to you,” I tell the smiling, glowing Edie in the picture. Then I step out of the car.

It’s warm, like in California, but humid in a way California almost never is. I can feel the frizz forming in my wavy hair, currently dyed fire engine red over the bleach job I did right before Edie disappeared. My roots are showing, too, about a half-inch of dark brown. I like the contrast, though.

A bell rings over the door as I go into the diner. There aren’t many people there: an older Black couple drinking coffee at oneof the booths, a row of cowboy-looking guys sitting at the bar. The cute, twenty-something waitress smiles at me when I come in and chirps out a charming, “Welcome to Bandit’s!” with the faintest hit of a Cajun accent. “Sit anywhere you like.”

I go for one of the booths, choosing one that’s near a guy about my age—maybe a little older. He’s cute, too. Well, maybecuteis the wrong word. He’s handsome in a severe kind of way. Long black hair pulled into a low ponytail, an aquiline nose, lips pursed in concentration. He’s drawing, sketchbook pages scattered around his table.

He glances at me when I walk over to the booth behind him. His eyes are strikingly blue. Not pale and icy but almost cerulean. Ocean water blue.

He scowls at me, then turns back to his drawings. I slide into the booth while the waitress brings over a menu.

“Don’t mind Jaxon,” she tells me. “He’s moody from being Pellerin’s resident artist.”

“You don’t have to tell everyone that,” Jaxon grumbles. I like his voice. It’s deep and velvety, with the same faint Cajun accent as the waitress.

“Why not? I think it’s cool.” The waitress grins at me. “What’ll you have to drink, hon?”

“Just water.” I look at the back of Jaxon’s head. “I’m an artist, too, actually. I’m visiting from California.”

“Well, how ‘bout that?” The waitress beams. “Jaxon, looks like you finally have someone to talk to.”

Jaxon makes a kind of scoffing sound, but I see those eerie blue eyes glance at me from over the top of the booth seat, drinking me in. The way he looks at me makes me feel kind of pinned in place, like I’m in an entomologist’s display.

I feel a brightness behind my right eye that means a migraine is on its way. Weird. And also annoying.

“What medium do you work in?” he asks.

This was not the conversation I expected to be having when I came into this diner. “Gouache, mostly. Oil if I’m feeling spicy.”

“You’re a painter.” He shifts in his seat, turning around to look at me head-on. “I do mixed media.”

“Cool. I’ve dabbled in that a bit.” I look down at my menu, although I don’t read it. I can feel Jaxon staring at me. It’s intense, bordering on creepy but never quite crossing the line. Which makes it hot.

This is not why you’re here, Charlotte.

“What brings you to the marsh?”

“The marsh?” I look up at him again, thrown off by his question. He gestures toward the big windows, although all I can see are the tangle of oak trees and pale grasses. “The marsh. The swamp. Where we are. This isn’t exactly on the road to New Orleans.”

I narrow my eyes at him, irritated. “I’m not going to New Orleans.”

He stares at me expectantly, but I just look down at my menu. Hamburgers, chicken finger baskets, fried shrimp. My stomach grumbles. My temple pulses.

And Jaxon’s still staring at me. I can feel it. I look back up at him, and he doesn’t even bother looking away. Although the way he’s staring at me isn’t bad, exactly. It’s not the stereotypical judgmental stares I might expect from being in a red state. His expression is more—curious. Interested. A little hungry.

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