Page 95 of Freeing Denver
Denver’s pregnant. She’s pregnant and in the hands of a fucking monster.
I’m still processing, so Alistair speaks before I do.
“You saw Denver? You’re sure?”
Sandy looks between us, raising her brows. “Yeah. I was gonna say hi, but I got a call. Saw her later downstairs getting into a car. Almost went up to her, but she looked … distracted.”
My thoughts collapse around me with such veracity that I can hardly form a sentence. “What gynecologists’ office? Here? In New York?”
“Uh, yeah,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “I thought you said you married her.”
I place my palms flat on the counter and try to breathe. “Sandy, I need you to write down the address. I need you to try and remember what that car looked like.”
My heart is running fast and free in my chest and head, blood rushing through my ears as Sandy eyes me suspiciously. “Listen, if she dumped you and you’re some stalker?—”
“I’m her husband,” I say, desperation leaking into my voice as I lock my eyes on hers. “Someone took her from me. She’s in danger, Sandy. You have to tell me everything.”
Her expression softens, and she takes her phone out of her apron. She types something in and then shows me a map application.
“I was here,” she says.
It’s fifteen minutes from here. Fifteen fucking minutes.
“When?”
“Last Tuesday. She got into a black limo car with some guy.”
I swallow. “An older guy?”
She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. “Nope. About your age, I think.”
Spider doesn’t have her. Or, at least, he doesn’t anymore. Which can only mean one thing.
I glance at Alistair. “He sold her?” The words feel bitter and thick on my tongue, and sympathy floods my friend’s expression.
“Sold?” Sandy whispers. “What do you mean,sold?”
“Did you get the plate?” I ask, focusing on being Colt right now and not Ghost, who wants to lose control. I need to be smart.
Sandy shakes her head. “No, I didn’t think she was in trouble. She looked a little … off, but not in danger.”
“Off how?”
She shrugs gently, as if she’s worried what she says next might upset me. “She looked pale.”
“Hurt?”
“I don’t think so.”
No bruises on her, but that doesn’t mean she’s not injured. Fuck. Fuck.Fuck. She was here six days ago, and I didn’t even know.
Could she have moved on by now?
“Get the doctor’s home address,” I tell Alistair. “You can send it to Taf on the way.”
He nods, his phone already out, doing God knows what to get that information. We head for the door, my strides eating up the space between myself and the car.
“Hey, what the fuck?” Sandy shouts, and when I turn, she’s yanking off her apron. “Bella, I quit!” She jogs around the counter and joins us.
