Page 11 of The Fire Went Wild

“Help!” I scream, the first thing I think even though I know it’s dumb. The only person who’s going to hear me is the one who did this. Surely.

Fragments of memory flash through my head. A pretty Southern waitress.Don’t mind Jaxon.An enormous greasy hamburger. Bright blue eyes watching me over the top of a booth. And on the highway?—

Staring at me right before he reached into my car.

I scream again and bang the chain against the floor like I’m a ghost in some Victorian penny dreadful. It feels like I’m in a penny dreadful, actually, with the decor in this room. Everything’s dark and wooden and heavy. Thick velvet curtains. A huge, weird painting on the wall that I can’t make out in the dim light. Some kind of mannequin in the corner.

“Let me out of here!” I scream, slamming the chain down as hard as I can. There’s enough slack that I’m able to get out of the bed, dragging the chain with me, and I almost make it to the door. Almost, but not quite. I pound the chain against the floor some more, hoping I’m scraping the hell out of the wooden slats. “Let me the fuck out,Jaxon.”

If that’s even his real name. If he’s even the one that’s keeping me here. He could have been some kind of honeypot or something.

I stop, breathing hard. The only answer I get is the heavy, creaking stillness of an old house.

“Fuck,” I whisper, falling backward on the bed. There’s a ceiling fan overhead, spinning in slow, lazy circles. Fear clenches in my stomach as I work backward from the moment of the crash. Everything’s fragmented and my head’s still pounding and I can’t think straight.

Edie. This has to do with Edie, right? I show Jaxon the symbol, and the next thing I know, he’s pulling open my car door after an accident on the highway and grabbing my hair and?—

I scream again, swinging my leg around so the chain makes as much noise as possible.

Andthistime, I do get an answer. Footsteps.

My fear clarifies. It’s one thing to be chained to a bed. It’s another to have the psycho who did it let himself into your room.

I scramble backward over the bed until I half-jump and half-fall off the other side. A key rattles in the lock. The brassy, old-fashioned knob turns. I keep stumbling back until I press up against the cool slick wallpaper.

The door swings open, and there he is. Pellerin’s resident artist.

“You don’t have to make all that noise,” he says coldly. “I know you’re up here.”

“Fuck you.”

He steps into the room, his eyes fixed on me. I sweep my gaze over him, looking for a weapon. His hands are empty, though. And he’s wearing dark, baggy sweatpants, an oversized black T-shirt. His hair’s kind of mussed, too.

“Were yousleeping?” I spit out.

“Yes.” He keeps staring at me. “Which is why I’m asking you to keep it down.”

“Keep itdown?” I laugh, shrill and hysterical. “You know what’ll make me quiet? If you let me fucking go.”

He sighs, shoulders hitching. “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

I press against the wall, trembling, waiting for him to explain. He does not.

“Why?” Maybe a prompt will get him to talk.

He doesn’t answer. But he also doesn’t try to come closer to me. He stays in the doorway. Just out of range of the chain, I’ll note.

And for a minute, we stare at each other. It’s still hard for me to think, the way my head feels like it’s splitting open. I’m not sure if it’s a return of one of my migraines or some lingering symptom from the crash.

“Why did you kidnap me?” I ask.

His eyes gleam in the yellow light. “I can’t kill you.”

My terror erupts at the wordkill, just for a second before I register what he actually said. I take a deep breath, steadying myself. “Why not?”

“I’m not allowed.”

“Not allowed? Notallowed?” My voice is shrill enough to cut glass. “Not allowed by who?”