Page 129 of Finding Denver

My heart is still beating wildly when Colt’s breathing evens out. I wait ten minutes. Twenty. Thirty. But the nightmare is still buzzing under my skin, and I know I won’t sleep.

I kiss Colt’s chest and ease myself out of bed, careful not to wake him. After pulling on his T-shirt and my underwear, I head downstairs, passing Holly’s shoes by the door, wondering how she’ll react when Colt and I tell her we’re together. I hope she’s excited. I can’t wait to spend more time with her.

In the low-lit dining room, I spot an untouched glass of whiskey on the table.

“Yes, please,” I whisper, tiptoeing over and drinking it, some running down my chin.

Wiping the droplet away, I run my tongue over my lips. Cool air sweeps over my bare feet and as I step forward, I hiss and snatch my foot back at the sudden chill. I crouch, running the tip of my finger over the discoloration on the rug. It’s wet.

I glance up, wondering if there’s a leak from the upstairs bathroom, but the ceiling looks normal. I stand, then step back to go upstairs, but the sole of my foot burns from cold when I step in more water.

No. Not water.

Snow.

Melted snow.

Footprints.

I gasp as a hand covers my mouth, and warm lips brush my ear.

“Hello, little bird.”

Chapter 35

Colt

Iopen my eyes open to darkness. Denver’s side of the bed is cold, and I sit up, listening for her.

“Denver?”

Silence greets me and I climb out of bed. I pull on sweats and try to ignore the tingling at the nape of my neck that tells me something is wrong—but I keep picturing her face when she woke from that nightmare. She was terrified, her eyes wide, face pale as I’d told her she was safe.

In the hall, I call out Denver’s name again.

No response. I check the rooms, even Wilder’s, but she isn’t up here. I thunder down the stairs, no longer masking the fear that’s spreading through my chest.

“Denver!”

I’m striding through the living room when my foot meets something. The item rolls across the floor, banging into the coffee table, and I pick it up.

My glass from earlier. I can’t smell whiskey, though. Did Denver drink it?

But why would it be on the floor?

A sharp, cracking sound has me droppingto a knee. Instinctively, I reach for the small black box beneath the television that holds my gun. I focus on where the sound came from, the front door, as I hold my thumb against the scanner on the box. It unlocks, and I take out the gun, loading it as I stand.

“Denver?” I take tentative steps toward the door.

The crack sounds again.

The door is open, banging against the wall as an icy breeze blows down the hall.

Panic mingles with the wind, and the hairs on my arms lift. I run to the door, striding into the dark and snow.

An empty street. No tire marks. Was I in such a deep sleep that I didn’t hear a car? Or did they take her by foot?

And who?