Chapter 5
Colt
Idrop my keys onto the kitchen island, my back aching from hours of hole digging and a long-ass flight. Taf had begged me to hire extra guys to do the dirty work with Spider’s dead men, but I thought it could be like old times.
It wasn’t. Fuck old times. I’m not twenty anymore. I’m too old for digging graves and hefting fully grown men into them.
Alistair dumps his bag by the door and rolls his shoulder, looking as exhausted as I feel. Taf glares at me as he passes.
“I said I was sorry. I thought it would be fun!” I call out after him, and he gives me the finger before disappearing upstairs.
Five of us live in the townhouse. Taf and Alistair are here most of the time, their own apartments left cold, likely out of habit more than anything.
Wilder lives here, too. We’ve always lived together or close to each other, with the exception of the two years when Callie and I were married and we lived in a brownstone close by.
Even then, our house was never quiet, but that’s how we liked it.
Now, it’s noisy in a different way. Closer to a frat house, with less drinking and no dating.
I bought this place in a desperate attempt to escape my old home which sits cold and empty two blocks away, the keys gathering dust in my nightstand drawer. I tell myself every day I’ll empty that old house and let another family create their own memories there.
But not yet.
There’s still too much of Callie there. Of Amy. Of a family that kept me alive.
My gaze shifts to the sound of small feet, and Holly comes into view as she hops down the stairs.
She grins when she sees me, her long, dark hair fanned over her favorite pink nightgown with the unicorn on the front.
She darts over to me, arms out, and I swing her up, breathing her in.
She’s getting taller, and I hate it. I want her to be six forever, tiny enough for me to carry around, but big enough that I can talk to her endlessly about silly things.
“What are you doing awake?” I whisper.
“Daddy fell asleep watching TV.” She plays with my beard. “He was sleepy.”
I kiss her temple. “Well, it’s bedtime now.” I ignore the pout that tells me I’m being the worst uncle in the world for insisting she get eight hours of sleep. “And brush your teeth.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I did.” She looks at Alistair. “Hi, Uncle Al.”
He smiles. “Hey, baby.”
“Open your mouth,” I say, and she does. I inspect her teeth. “You have a movie theater of popcorn in there. Brush your teeth properly, and I’ll be up in five minutes.”
I set her down and she considers me. “How long is five minutes?”
“Longer than a song, shorter than Bluey.”
This seems to please her, and she darts upstairs.
“You want me to come with you when you speak to Wilder?” Alistair asks. He knows it won’t be a pleasant conversation, but it’s one we’ve had so many times it’s rehearsed in my mind.
I shake my head. “Get some sleep.”
“Do I need to brush my teeth, too?” he asks as he passes.
“Yes, you fucking do,” I say, and he laughs as he takes the stairs.
I find my brother fast asleep on a couch in one of the upstairs living rooms. Credits are rolling on Holly’s favorite movie, Beauty and the Beast, and the table has three empty beer bottles and a half-finished glass of whiskey on it. Beside the glass is Holly’s juice.
Do I blame my brother for burying himself in a bottle? No. I can’t imagine the pain of not knowing. While I lost Callie, I know exactly where she is.
Wilder has no idea where his wife is. He doesn’t know if Marnie is alive, and if she is, what’s being done to her. She could be in pain right now. She could be on the other side of the city, begging for her life, and we’d have no idea.
All we know is that Spider took her three years ago, and we haven’t seen or heard from her since.
Not knowing is a splinter in the brain that never goes away.
But he’s losing out on his time with Holly, and he won’t accept mine or anyone’s help. I’m angry at him. Fucking furious sometimes—and nights like this, my patience runs out, because I’ve tried. I’ve fucking tried. But what else can I do?
I pick up a cushion from the easy chair and launch it at my brother. He jolts awake, wincing, one eye open as he looks at me.
“Fuck, Colt. What?”
“Your kid was watching a movie alone while you were passed out again,” I hiss quietly, aware that Holly is only a floor above us.
He sits up and runs a hand across his beard, his long hair disheveled and half falling out of its bun. “I can’t have a beer while I’m babysitting?”
I resist tearing apart the coffee table between us. “It isn’t babysitting when it’s your fucking kid!”
He glares at me. “Don’t yell at me.”
“Can I trust you to take care of her? If not, Mom can move in, or Holly can go to her.”
He has the gall to look offended. “She’s mine. She isn’t living anywhere but with me,” He rests his elbows on his knees. “And don’t act all high and mighty like you’ve been away rescuing kittens. I might have had a drink, but her uncle still has blood on his hands.”
The legs of the coffee table groan as I use the sole of my shoe to shift it aside. Wilder sits up as I advance on him.
“You keep your fucking voice down when you say shit like that.” How I control myself is a fucking mystery.
The only reason Wilder hasn’t had blood on his own hands in the last ten months is because I’ve kept him hidden from the Luxes.
This is his fault, his fucking mess, yet he still feels like he can blame me every damn day.
Wilder keeps his head down. “Did you kill them?”
Them. The Luxes. The innocent party in all this.
“No. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do.”
He lifts his head to look at me, eyes bloodshot and wide. “They’ll keep looking for me, Colt. I can’t keep hiding in this house.”
“Then you should have fucking thought about that before you killed two people who meant something to her.”
We’ve torn through this argument a hundred times, and Wilder has found the regret, but not the patience it takes to fix this monumental fuck-up. I breathe deeply and roll my neck.
“The good news is that Dorian Eddards is dead.”
His eyes widen. “What? How the—”
“He was getting his revenge for the finger-cutting incident. Tried to take Deluxe.”
Wilder might be fucking reckless sometimes—he’s cruel when he wants to be—but even he wouldn’t want someone going through the same hell Marnie might have. So when I say what I say, his expression softens into one of concern.
“She okay?”
I nod. “Ranger came and got her.”
He chews his lip. “They both saw you?”
“Luckily, no. He did. But it’s not like it matters anyway.” I sit beside him, and he says nothing. “Ranger said he’d let this go, but Denver won’t.”
Wilder focuses on his hands. Without the freedom to roam and exercise his ego, his confidence has wilted. He’s spent time thinking about what he did, who he killed, and the reasons he did it, and he isn’t dealing well.
Which is why I also know he’s paid more than Denver realizes.
“Keto was here earlier,” he says, referring to one of our other friends. Someone who was eager to meet the Luxes but far too trigger happy to bring with me. “He told me about the Vince thing. You really broke his arm?”
I drop my head back against the couch. “Both arms. And a few fingers.”
“Good.” His smile is crooked. “I hate that guy.”
I return the smile, and it doesn’t feel as forced.
Most of our conversations now are centered around Holly or the Luxes.
It isn’t often we can sit and talk shit about work or hockey or anything, so I hold onto this, even if it’s just for a moment.
“There aren’t many people you do like.” I stand and head to the door.
“I like you!” he calls out.
“Don’t be a kiss-ass.” I pause. “Why was Keto here, anyway?”
Wilder rubs his palms together. “There were problems at the border, our usual guy called off sick so the shipment was stuck.” I exhale. This is fucking typical. “I fixed it.”
I wish I could hide my surprise. “You did?”
His smile is weak. “I used to not suck at this, remember?”
Fuck. I do remember. He was my go-to, the man I trusted above everyone else. My fucking brother.
And all I do recently is doubt him.
I scratch the back of my neck. “Wilder—”
“It’s okay,” he says quietly. “I just … I just want you to trust me again.”
Me too. I give him a nod. “Don’t stay up too late.”
“Okay, Mom,” He grins and I give him the finger.
I take each step to my room slowly, my body aching. Once I’m showered, I dress in sweats and a T-shirt and find Holly already in bed. The pink room is cast in a soft yellow glow from her plug-in night-light, and her small speaker is reading a story as she clings to a stuffed unicorn.
“Comfy?” I ask as I perch on the edge of the bed.
She nods. “Where did you go?”
“Work,” I say, brushing her hair back.
She watches me with wide eyes. Wilder’s eyes. “How long are we staying here?”
My heart aches a little at the question. She moved here with Wilder after the mess at Denver’s wedding because I couldn’t protect them unless they were with me. I moved her from the only home she’d ever known, just years after her mom was taken.
I worry every day that she’s already been through too much. She knows our family isn’t like her friend’s. Her life is different. Drastically different.
“For a little while longer.”
She squeezes her toy. “I like it.”
I smile. “You do?” She nods again.
“Will you sit here like Daddy does?”
I lie beside her, cushioned by endless stuffed toys, and the speaker keeps reading a story she’s probably heard a hundred times. Holly closes her eyes, and I run my fingers through her hair.
It’s always at night when I’m reminded how my life has changed.
When Callie was pregnant, we’d lie in bed and try to imagine how strange it would be when she went into labor—how it’d be the two of us one day, then bringing home a baby the next.
Our entire existence would be shifted within hours (“An hour would be nice!” she’d said), and that would be it. Our lives forever changed.
You never think it will switch back again.
That the nights of whispering with Callie about what our little girl would be like would then be me telling my little girl what her mom was like.
Then that the toys strewn across a bedroom floor would be put away and never reemerge.
That the glittery sneakers by the front door would never be retied.
After barely four years of having my little girl in my life, she was taken, too.
And then it would be just me, wondering if I’d imagined their existence entirely.
I rest my forearm over my eyes. I’m just tired. That’s all.
It’s just been a long day. That’s all.
I’ve just lost everything. That’s all.