Page 126 of Freeing Denver
She faces our friends, the gathering of them by the door—and I watch her pull herself together in real time. Like the moment rewinds, the shattered pieces of Denver become one again. Her lip doesn’t tremble. Her eyes are no longer glassy.
And she’s Deluxe.
“We deal with it,” she says.
Ronan’s voice is low. “Now?”
She nods.
She lifts her chin, clears her throat, and calls his name.
“Lewis, I need to speak with you.”
Chapter 38
Denver
Lewis is mid-conversation with Taf and looks over after I call his name. He’s still smiling as he strides over and stands before me, brows raised in question.
My friend.
My protector.
A liar.
“Tell me your name.”
Lewis’s brow furrows in confusion, but he’s still smiling. “What?”
“Your. Name,” I repeat, my tone clipped. “Tell me your name.”
His smile falters. “Lewis Gozia.”
My heart slams against my chest, my blood hot as it pumps hot and quick around my body. It keeps me grounded, the beating frantic in my ears.
I step closer to him. “Tell me your name.” His expression falls. It’s a slow, dawning realization, and he searches my face, but he doesn’t speak. “I won’t ask you again.”
The others have fallen quiet. Taf has moved closer, his attention darting between Lewis and me. Alistair is watching from Dante’s abandoned chair, looking equally confused.
Lewis says, “My name is Lewis.”
“Lewiswhat?” I hiss.
His jaw hardens. “Ledger.”
My breath is robbed, even though Ronan’s guy confirmed it for me on the phone. We hired him a few days ago to dig into the name Kitrick gave us—because he may have recognized Lewis’s voice, but I needed to know why. Why would my friend do this?
And now I do.
“Wyatt’s mom finally hired the right guy,” I say quietly, trying not to unravel. I’m torn between the need to scream and cry. “Why? Why for so long? You could have just killed me. Why be my fucking friend?”
The kindness I’ve grown so used to is gone. Lewis is cold, detached, not the man who stood under a cold shower and begged me to snap out of it. Not the one who cheered when I told him Colt and I were married. Not the one who helped me get stronger, who worried for me, who I trusted.
“I needed to know for sure it was you who killed Wyatt,” he says, his voice low. There’s no gloating, no smugness. “You needed to trust me.”
I try to swallow the break in my voice, but I can’t. “Then you did a good job, didn’t you?” He stares at me and says nothing. “I told you what happened with Wyatt months ago. Why not just kill me then?”
“Because she would have wanted it to hurt,” he says tightly, bitterness crawling through his words. “She died. Did you know that? Did you even give a shit? Your mother-in-law died, never knowing what happened to her son.”
