Page 102 of Feed Your Fiends

“High.”

“High up. The penthouse is high up.” I nod, my heart racing in my ears as I sit up on my knees.

“Dove,” he whispers, and then his eyes bore into me. “Little Dove.”

I swallow, hard, trying to keep my emotions at bay. “They wanted to get information out of you. Information aboutMarisol Pelletier, my former dance instructor, but they couldn’t, right?”

“Marisol.”

“Marisol, right. She was Bart’s wife. The woman you had an affair with—”

“I don’t know,” he interrupts me, but suddenly his voice sounds robotic as if on autoplay.

“I think you do… Think, Jarett—”

“I don’t know,” he repeats, and then his face contorts with the frenzy of his spewing words. “I don’t know! I don’t know! I don’t know—”

“It’s okay,” I whisper, gazing over his shoulder and into the kitchen to see if his guardian angel is flapping over to protect him.

“I don’t know,” he says again, slower this time. “One time. Just one time.”

My mind races because suddenly, I realise he’s been answering me all along. “One time with Madame Marisol?”

“One time. One. Just one,” he says again.

“In the shower?”

“Shower. Just one.”

“Did you meet Marisol because of my dance classes? Or did you know her through your brother?”

Before I can say his name, Jarett blurts, “Silas.”

“Yes, Silas!” I say, before lowering my voice and trying to contain my excitement at finally getting somewhere. “Did you know Madame through Silas? Did you know she was trying to get revenge on Silas? Did you know she had a baby with him?”

No response. I’m asking too many questions at once, and I can tell he’s starting to shut down.

“Madame Marisol,” I try again. “You didn’t know herbeforethe shower?”

“One time,” he babbles. “Called me. Elle won.”

“Won,” I mutter. “Madame called you because I won?”

Won…won what?

“Elle won,” he repeats.

My brows knit. The only thing I’d won in my entire life was—

Soft footsteps on the shag carpet pull me out of my trance. Jaime’s carrying a tray of crispy, steaming wings.

“Elle,” she says, oblivious to Jarett slipping out of his psychosis a fraction. “I see that Beaulieu is reopening in a few days. Don’t tell me you’re going back to that school with that boy?”

“School,” Jarett says as she settles the tray onto his lap, and he grabs a wing without so much as a thanks. “Won.”

“But I won Beaulieu’s scholarship through Gant years later. After—” My blood runs cold. School. Dance school. My scholarship. I wontwoscholarships. The fake one was at Beaulieu, and the other was at Marisol's dance studio over the summer. “Madame Marisol called to tell you that I’d won the dance scholarship? Is that how you met?”

But had I won it, or was it a happy coincidence, or had Marisol planned it all out?

---