Page 12 of Taking Denver

Ethan has his hands up but looks nowhere close to surrender. He glares at Adam, shoulders rising and falling with breaths far too steady for a man who has half-broken a man’s skull with nothing but fists and half a story.

Sirens sing in the distance. Adam runs.

I release all the oxygen from my lungs, and Ethan kneels before me. His lips have spots of red on them. He’d put on a gray shirt, but it’s peppered with blood. He should have worn black. People should always wear black around me.

“Your face,” he says, examining it. “My friend is a doctor. I’ll?—”

“Check Wesson,” I say. “Adam kicked him twice, I think.”

Ethan closes his eyes for a heartbeat as if searching for patience. “If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have stopped hitting him.”

Humor bursts from beneath the terror, and I laugh, even though it sends vibrations of ache through my face. “You’ll avenge the dog more than me?”

Ethan stares at me like I’m bizarre for laughing at a time like this, and maybe I am. But if I don’t see the funny side, I’ll need more therapy than even I can afford.

The wail of sirens closes in, and so does reality. Soon, the questions will begin. I grip Ethan’s wrist. “You can’t repeat his name.”

It isn’t a threat. Not even close. But it isn’t a plea, either. I hope he can see the truth in my eyes—that giving Adam Ledger’s name to the police won’t end well.

“You’re asking me to lie,” he says, searching my face.

I swallow, selecting my words carefully. “I’m asking you to forget.” The sirens stop, and someone is already knocking on the door. My gaze darts to the sound, and I wet my lips. “Ethan. This is nothing compared to what they’ll do if you say his name to anyone with a badge.”

“They?” His eyes widen, but it isn’t fear I see. It’s disbelief. “Who the fuck are they?”

More bangs on the door and shouts from the police. I squeeze Ethan’s wrist gently. “It was loud. You didn’t hear his name. Okay?”

The door bursts open, and I drop the gun but keep my eyes on Ethan.

And to my surprise and relief, he nods.

I sit alonein the back of an ambulance, swinging my legs back and forth as I wait for the all-clear I don’t need. My face is cleaned up, my nose isn’t broken, thank god, and at most, I’ll have a nasty black eye. The police asked me questions, but as soon as they heard my name, they let me go. The other guests at the hotel have been in and out of questioning all evening, too, but it won’t yield any answers or lead to any arrests. I know that all too well.

My phone hums, and I glance at the lit-up screen.

DO NOT ANSWERis calling.

Guilt grips me, like snakes writhing in my belly. I should pick up. He’ll be worried. And maybe even on a plane.

Wesson leans against my legs and sighs, and I stroke his head. “Not long, pup.”

My phone stops ringing, and the missed calls from that number tick to seventy-eight. Instead of calling back, I fire off a text to Cal.

Me: I’m okay. Did he get on the plane?

He reads it immediately, and I chew my lip, watching the three dots as he types a response.

Cal: No.

He’d taken far too long to respond for such a simple answer. Dread curls around my throat and squeezes.

Me: What happened?

His response takes a few minutes, and each second robs me of more oxygen.

Cal: Work.

I run a hand through my hair. That could mean so many things, and I don’t dare fall down the rabbit hole of what. Wesson’s tail suddenly wags enthusiastically.

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