Page 68 of Finding Denver

I nod, glancing at the door. “So … act like I belong?”

“Del.” He tugs the scarf gently, drawing my attention back to him. “You do belong.”

We make our way across the street. The men at the entrance straighten, and Colt holds the door open for me.

I cross the threshold into a long room made up of dark, aging wood. A man behind the bar is pulling a pint, two customers waiting, and an old television is playing a football game. Small tables and booths make up one side of the narrow building, and a pool table at the back has seen better days, but there are still two men around it, cues in hand. I instinctively lift my chin, stepping into the role of Deluxe—a woman who strides through this life and isn’t intimidated by every single person in front of her.

“He’s upstairs,” Colt says and points to a door at the far wall. He strides toward it, and one by one, each man forgets what they were doing. If they were sitting, they stand. If they were facing the bar, they face Colt. They place down beers, whiskeys, and cues, and give their attention to him.

Colt is a tower of strength as he walks between the divide created by burly men who, I know from experience, will be armed. He nods at a few of them as he moves with easy strides, his shoulders back, seeming taller than he ever has. I wonder if he’s misjudged the situation, because it feels like the men are marking their territory, challenging him, and I remain in place, waiting for a gun to be drawn, my heart climbing around my ribcage.

But no one moves. No one pulls a weapon or shouts a threat. No one even speaks.

And I realize I’ve seen this before. Whenever my father entered a room, on the few occasions I was with him in aplace busy with dangerous people, they would stand. Some would take off hats and bow their heads.

A room filled with power would bend a knee to my father because of who he was.

I’m witnessing it again with Colt.

My heart races at memories long lost. Of my father shaking hands with people I didn’t know. He knew names, jobs, family members, issues they were having. He may have had sides of him that were monstrous, but to those who deserved it, my father gave them time. And to some, that means more than money or power.

At the far end of the room, Colt stops and turns, clearly surprised that I haven’t followed. I’m still frozen by memories and a sliver of fear—and then he smiles. A reassuring smile. A remember-who-the-fuck-you-are smile.

I force my feet to move, to keep my shoulders straight, to look these men in the eye—but none of them meet my gaze. Their heads aren’t down, but not a single man silently challenges or scrutinizes me. While it isn’t new for people to show me courtesy, it’s never like this.

Respect. Not fear.

I reach Colt, and he says, “You good?”

I nod. “Fine.”

He opens the door for me.

A steep, almost suffocating wooden stairwell leads us upstairs. We reach a place that could have been an apartment at one point, but now it’s an open space, inner walls knocked through, the paint-spattered wooden floor stripped back. The windows rattle, condensation gathering on the glass, and sitting in a chair, bound and gagged, is Spider’s man.

Colt removes his coat, pulling it over one shoulder, then the other, before laying it on a paint-stained table. His darkshirt clings to the powerful lines of his body, his entire focus on Spider’s man as he rolls his shirt sleeves to his elbows, revealing the artwork that gave him his name.

This is the same man who drank with me. Who confessed to his most famous kill being an accident. Who bargained for his brother’s life instead of securing it by killing me. Now, that good man is tucked away. He isn’t Colt Harland.

He’s Ghost.

The bound man watches as Colt slips on silver knuckle-dusters. Taf looks almost giddy. I give Lewis an intrigued look, but he seems unsurprised, and I return my attention to Colt as he removes the tape from the man’s mouth. Our captive is in his late thirties, brown hair stuck to his head with the sweat that’s pumping out of him. His pale blue eyes are fixed on Colt, jaw tight, his breathing not frantic—until he sees Colt’s arms. His eyes widen and he shakes his head quickly.

Colt says, “Name.”

Not a request, or a question. A demand.

“Spider didn’t say it’d be you,” the man says.

Colt watches him, and with total calm, repeats the word. “Name.”

“M … Malcolm. But he said it would be her. He told me to get her?—”

The first crack of the knuckle-dusters against his cheek is exactly how I imagine metal hitting bone to sound. It’s a thud mingled with a crack, and Malcolm lets out a pained exhale, his eyes wide.

“Get me and do what?” I ask.

He takes a few pained gulps of breath. “Kill you or take you, whatever we could.”