Page 37 of Finding Denver

Now, I look at him. “Do you?”

“No.” He closes his fingers into a fist, the muscles in his forearms quivering, the silk river of Styx seeming to move. “I never have.”

I watch him like I did when he stood in the street, drawn to features I shouldn’t notice. His freshly dried hair is wilder, but still neat enough to give him a throwaway, handsome look. This new shirt is blue, bringing out the starkness of his eyes. And he’s playing with his bare wedding finger, running the thumb of his opposite hand into it.

“Showing me your softer side doesn’t show me Wilder’s,” I say. “Nothing you say tonight will change what he did or how he hurt me.”

He watches me with an almost sympathetic expression, and I wonder who he’s worried for—Wilder or himself. “Killing him won’t make you feel better.”

“Someone needs to pay.”

“The only person paying right now is you.” I lift my chin as if that can deflect the words. “Trust me. If you ever stand over my brother’s body, nothing will change. You won’t feel a switch. The grief won’t stop. You’re not a killer, Denver. Not like that.” The words burn through me. The insinuation infuriates me—that just because I’m notthatLuxe, I’m weak. “Most of us aren’t.”

“Ranger—”

“Ranger is a different breed of man,” he interjects. “So was his father.” I maintain eye contact, unwilling to give away the truth, despite him clearly knowing it. “And I’m guessing you know who his father is.”

Yes, I do, but I’m not discussing the McEwan family history, especially with Colt. It isn’t my business, and it definitely isn’t his. I turn my body to face him and cross my legs, pulling his jacket tighter around me.

“Tell me then, Colt. If I don’t kill Wilder, what do I do? Do I let it go?”

“Yes.”

“Would you?”

He nods. “Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.” I lean forward, and he doesn’t seem bothered by the proximity. “If someone killed two people you loved in front of you, you wouldn’t walk away. You’d have killed Wilder that night, and you wouldn’t have given him another thought.”

“But you didn’t kill him that night. You’ve lost the advantage of a passionate kill, Denver. Now you’ve had time, and plenty of it, to think about your decision. And that’s what adults do when we’re not offered the luxury of blaming murder on a split-second decision.” His expression isn’t angry, but it is tough. “And when you’re given space, and time, and context, things change.”

“What context?”

“Wilder is a human being who was going through a tough time and fucked up. Hugely. He has paid for that fuck-up tenfold. Trust me on that.”

Anger strengthens my resolve, fires up my need to raise my voice. “It isn’tenough.”

“What will be enough? Cutting him to pieces? Hearing him cry? Beg? Do you want an apology, Denver?”

I fall over my words. “No, but?—”

“Do you even know what you’re asking for?” he challenges. “Because it sounds a lot like you want to go back in time, and no one can give that to you. Blood doesn’t wash away blood.” I search his face—for what, I’m not sure. An answer. Permission. Something other than the truth he’s speaking. “There’s strength in forgiveness, Deluxe. More than anyone will give you credit for, but it’s there.”

Strength. I don’t have or want that anymore.

I want peace. A respite from the ache that seems never ending. The constant attempts on my life, the competition, finding the will to get up every morning and step into the role of a woman who isn’t me.

The ability to be Deluxe is being pulled away from me, and I don’t know if it’s time, or Ranger, or the death on my conscience that’s causing it, but I want to let her go. I’m too tired to keep pretending.

Maybe I should accept Ranger’s ultimatum. Be his wife. Warm his bed. Answer questions from journalists about my outfits and the songs I like to run to. Maybe Ranger is right—I’ll make mistakes because I’m not her. I’m not Deluxe. I’m just not fucking strong enough.

“I searched for you for ten months,” I say, my voice low. The firmness of Colt’s expression falters. “I putalmost a year of my life into finding you. Finding him. And now you’re just … here.”

And nothing is going like I thought it would. I’ve known for a while that my fire to kill Wilder has been closer to embers than a true flame, but I thought a moment like this would reignite it. I’d hoped the day I came face to face with him or Colt that the rush of hate that sustained me for so long would come back like a tidal wave to help me pull the trigger. It should have. I wish it would.

He reaches for the bottle and takes another swig. “You have me now, Deluxe. And it seems all we have is time and each other’s company. So … ask me whatever you want.”

A glimpse into the life of a private man. A chance to touch Ghost. To know things other men have bled to hear.