Page 42 of Finding Denver

Yes, she does. Everyone says it. She looks more like me than Wilder. It was a running joke for years and would be now if it wasn’t so painful to say.

“You saved me because of her.”

She nods. “I wasn’t going to. I was close to walking away. But I thought … if it had been me. If someone had known how much my dad meant to me and spared his life so I wouldn’t be alone?” Tears gather along her lash line. “I’d have been grateful to them forever.”

My heart twists in my chest, and I feel something other than frustration for this woman. Something close to understanding. I was looking for her humanity, and I’ve found it.

I didn’t think I’d find mine, too.

I save my feelings for Holly, for the little girl who lost her mom and is close to losing her dad. She gets the version of Colt that I want to bury, but Denver has pulled him free, too. With a single look, she’s reached into my chest andscooped up the fragments of a man who was a husband, a father, a son, a friend.

And now I have to tell her the truth, even though I know what it’ll do to her.

I swallow. “She isn’t my daughter. She’s Wilder’s.”

Realization dries her tears and parts her lips.

I watch her go through a whirlwind of emotions that I’ve caused.

Her reasons for saving me just became her reasons to forgive Wilder.

I’ve robbed something from her. A chance at peace, maybe. It was only the truth, but maybe at the worst time, because fresh tears fill her eyes, and she doesn’t stop them from falling.

I don’t know if I’ve caged or freed her, and it feels too cruel to ask.

For some reason, something I’ll likely always wonder about and question, I touch her face. She doesn’t recoil. She doesn’t stop me. Too lost in what she’s given up, she lets me cup her cheek. Her lips tremble as more tears dampen her skin, and I run my thumb under her eye to wipe them away.

The elevator springs to life. Denver pulls back and I glance at the camera in the corner. I didn’t tell Alistair to do this, but he must have decided it was time.

I stand and offer Denver a hand, but she ignores it. She swipes furiously at her face, refusing to look at me. When we reach her floor, she sweeps up her wet clothes and storms out.

The doors go to close, and I slam my hand against them, squeezing my eyes shut.

I’ve probably saved my brother’s life. Being a father has spoken to Denver in some way, and this is what I wanted. This the best outcome.

Then why do I feel like this? Why do I feel like I may as well have held a gun to her head and told her I’d pull the trigger if she didn’t let this go?

Why do I feel like the monster?

I should just walk away. Tell Wilder it’s over. The Luxes defeated. My conscience fucking destroyed. Denver’s hope gone, too.

I’m leaving the elevator before I can reason with myself not to.

I sprint down the hall and catch her door before it shuts. She whirls on me, backing away as I enter her room and close the door behind me.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

She looks horrified. “Sorry?”

“Yes, I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry this happened to you. I’m sorry Wilder did this to you.”

Her eyes are glassy, more tears falling. She has a gun. We’re alone. She could kill me, and I’m starting to think I wouldn’t blame her. An apology is an insult for what Wilder did to her.

But she doesn’t shoot me. She shoves me. “Fuck you, Colt.”

“I—”

“Say you’re sorry again and I’ll kill you!” she screams, a sob escaping her throat. “You don’t get to be sorry. Wilder doesn’t get to walk away because he was lucky enough to have someone who needs him. What do I get?” She hits her chest. “What gets me through the night, Colt? What stops me from hurting?”