Page 88 of Freeing Denver

“Colt, please find me,” I whisper. “Please, please find me.”

Minutes turn into an hour.

One hour into two.

I keep my back to the door, listening for any approaching footsteps or a turn of the handle.

Another hour passes.

Another.

I finally close my eyes when the door opens.

Under my pillow, I wrap my fingers around the knife I stole days ago. It’s a butter knife, barely even worth considering as a weapon, but it’s something.

Tonight, I fight, and I get out of here.

The door clicks closed, and footsteps approach. The handle of the knife warms in my grip, and my heart thunders quick and fast in my chest, my head pounding with the adrenaline pumping through me. My head spins and my stomach flips, but I focus on all the training Lewis insisted on teaching me.

Jab and run.

Jab and run.

Run as fast as you fucking can.

Don’t be a hero, don’t?—

As soon as I feel his body heat, I lunge. His hand grips my wrist, the other covers my mouth, and he forces me back onto the bed as I scream into his palm.

Not like this, not like this?—

But it isn’t Eli.

Kitrick is above me, light blue eyes darting from the knife to my face. He’s heavy on me, his body pinning mine to the bed. My breath comes in frantic pulses against his palm, and he releases my hand.

“Don’t. Talk,” he mouths, lifting off me and pulling me out of the bed and to my feet. He takes hold of my wrist and leads me to the shuttered closet, opening it and pushing me gently inside. The coat hangers clang around me as he ushers me to sit in the far corner. “Don’t move. Don’t speak. Do you understand?” I stare at him, still clutching the butter knife. “Denver, use your words.”

“I understand,” I whisper, and he closes the closet door.

There’s no time for me to wonder what’s happening or why Kitrick hid me, because the moment the closet is closed and I’m plunged into relative darkness, Eli stumbles through the bedroom door.

I watch both him and Kitrick through the slats, wiping my sweaty palm on my leg and readjusting my hold on the knife.

Kitrick laughs. “What the fuck happened to you?”

Eli is clearly drunk, clinging to the door handle, his cheeks pink. He grins. “Dutch. Courage. Hoping it’d help me forget she’s knocked up …” He hiccups. “Where is she?”

“The room.” Kitrick tucks his hands into his pockets. “You sent her there after dinner.”

“Did I?” Eli rears his head back.

“Yes, for being mouthy, as usual. I was making sure no fucker snuck her out like last time.”

Eli runs a hand down his face and groans. “Fuck. I don’t even remember that.” He stumbles into the room and collapses onto the bed, sighing into the covers. “Wake me up if you need me.”

In seconds, his loud snores fill the room. Kitrick stares at the bed and I wait, wondering what the plan is now, wondering why there’s even a plan in the first place.

Painful minutes pass before Kitrick comes to the closet door and eases it open. I stare up at him and he holds out his hand.