Page 61 of Freeing Denver
Alistair frowns. “Do what?”
“Tell me you didn’t send that footage to the cops. Tell me you didn’t just lock Denver away for life because you don’t fucking like her.” I approach with slow steps, and my friend watches. “Tell me you didn’t do this.”
Alistair’s jaw is tight. “I didn’t.”
“You told me you watched the footage.”
“I did.”
“And what did you fucking do with it?”
The gulf between my best friend and I has become so vast that I feel like I can’t reach him anymore. The break hasn’t even been slow—it’s snapped, obliterated.
It’s beyond saving if he’s done this.
“Tell me the truth.”
“You want the truth, Colt?” Alistair challenges. He steps close to me and Taf inches forward, both his and JJ’s eyes moving between us. “I considered it. I wanted to do it.”
I shove him. “Why? What is your fucking problem with her?”
“She’s bad for you, Colt! She’s fucking poison!” he shouts. “How do you know you won’t end up with a bullet between your eyes just like Wyatt? Or two in your back like Ethan? Or maybe she’ll cut your throat like she did to Vince.”
“Denver killed Vince?” JJ asks.
My heart is hammering. We needed to keep that under wraps; the fewer people who know, the better. I grit out my next sentence. “Yes. He’s the one who planted the bombs that killed Finn and Wilder. Denver fixed a problem.”
“Almost fucked him first, though.” The words have barely left Alistair’s mouth when I hit him.
I expect him to go down, but he comes at me. His knuckles meet my jaw, and I seize his throat, throwing him against the wall. Picture frames shudder and smash as they meet the ground, memories scattering at our feet. I hit him. Again. And again.
Strong hands grip my shoulders and yank me back.
Taf places himself between Alistair and me. “Twenty fucking years we’ve been friends, and we’ve never once thrown a punch. And this is what does it?” He looks between us, cheeks flushed with anger.
“Fuck this. I’m done.” Alistair wipes his nose, blood smearing across his face. “You’ve chosen her. Good fucking luck.”
He strides across the room.
“Alistair, you’re not serious!” JJ calls out, but the door opens and slams shut without a response.
Chapter 17
Denver
Quinn Marshall is going down.
After hours of her asking me the same question over and over, I’m ready to lose my shit. I’ll strangle her with her own ponytail, and I’ll enjoy every damn second of it. I’ve started singing “no comment” instead of saying it, and my throat is hurting from my operatic performance an hour ago, but it gave me some satisfaction watching her wince when I tried to hit high notes.
But fuck this lady and fuck her half-assed CCTV footage that only shows me parking outside the house of a guy who later died. I resisted telling Detective Marshall that most of the men I spend late nights with are now dead. It’s an unfortunate consequence of being close to me.
I slump back on the bed, resting my head on the cold wall. I’ve been here all night and might be here for another, if the lawyer isn’t able to get me out. I need a shower, a cup of coffee, and a hug from Colt. And maybe a gun to forever remove Quinn Marshall from existence.
“Ah, here she is,” I sigh as Quinn comes into view. “The apple of my eye. My favorite detective in the whole wide world. How are you?”
“Well rested and caffeinated,” she says, standing on the other side of the bars with a grin on her face. “How about you?”
“Thrilled. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s good to venture outside of my bubble.” I stand and sidle confidently up to her. “Got any gum? I have morning breath. Unless you like that kind of thing.”
