Page 83 of Freeing Denver

“Uncle Colt, can we get ice cream for Wesson?” Holly asks breathlessly, her cheeks pink.

I force a smile. “We could get ice cream for both of you.”

“Okay, good.” She holds out her hand and I take it, standing. My leg aches, but I focus on taking normal strides. I’ve missed out on my physiotherapy, the hours felt wasted when I could belooking for her, but I’m paying for it now. “Will Denver want ice cream?”

Holly has lost too many people to accept another load of grief, so as far as she knows, Denver is busy, but she’s close by. Holly will go away with my mom again soon, this visit brief. Something to pull me out of the shadows, my mom said. It’s almost worked.

“Maybe another time.”

Holly’s favorite ice cream parlor is in the city, and I keep a firm grip of her hand, the other holding Wesson’s leash as we get out of the car and make the rest of the short journey on foot. Security is everywhere, dressed casually to not draw attention to us. People rush by, lost in their own problems and lives, and cars sit in heavy traffic. It’s a clear day, the air heavy with car fumes and horns blasting. Music spills from stores we pass, conversation loud and distracting as Holly talks excitedly about going back to the beach with my mom.

I listen. I respond. I smile where I should and laugh when I’m supposed to. We order ice cream. I pay. Wesson chomps on a vanilla cone, his lips peppered in droplets of white, and Holly giggles.

It’s normal.

Painfully so.

It feels so fucking wrong.

Every smile is a knife. Every laugh is a twisted blade. Every second is a second she could be in pain.

My gaze drifts to a limo car stuck in traffic, the darkened windows reflecting myself.

I look like me. Apart from a little weight loss, and the dark circles under my eyes, I’m Colt Harland.

So why do I feel outside myself? Why do I feel as though my life is playing out in torturous slow motion?

Why do I feel as though I’ve died?

The lights change. The car moves on. My reflection disappears.

When Denver was first taken, I maimed, and tortured, and tore people to pieces for information. I took more lives in those first few weeks than I have in my close to two decades in this job.

When that didn’t work, I strategized. I took my time. I hunted for leads. I called in favors. That didn’t work, either.

But maybe that’s the problem.

Colt doesn’t hurt enough.

Maybe in order to get her back, I need to become someone totally different.

Maybe, to take back control, to find my wife, my future, my love, my everything, I need to become an entirely new kind of monster.

Maybe I need to become Ghost again.

Chapter 25

Denver

Iopen my eyes to darkness, but it isn’t as thick as usual. The curtains are drawn, and I’m nestled in a bed, the covers pulled high, clean silk pajamas soft against my skin. The last thing I remember is being curled up on the floor of that room, the floor damp from urine, my head pounding, the tears dried out.

How did I get out?

The lamp in the corner is on, and sitting in the armchair beside it is Kitrick. He’s on his phone, looking bored.

“I’m out?” I whisper.

“Yes, you are,” he says, his eyes remaining on his screen. “You were barely in there three days. Lucky you.”