Page 85 of Her Remarkable Protector

I sit in the truck for a while, letting the engine idle.

The memories come without warning. The afternoon we arrived. Bomber and me, stepping out of the car. We weren’t supposed to be there long—just a scare job. Make Dalton Deveraux give back what he stole from the Circle. Bomber didn’t see it that way. He had a different plan, one he didn’t bother sharing with me until it was too late.

I shake my head, trying to push it back, but it’s no use. The fight in the living room. Dalton yelling. Bomber taunting him. I tried to de-escalate, to keep it from spiraling, but Bomber wasn’t listening. He pulled the trigger like it was nothing.

It wasn’t nothing. A man was killed—a father was killed. But that was just the beginning. The real hell started upstairs. I can still hear the creak of the floorboards, the way the air felt unnaturally still, like the house itself braced for what was coming.

Bree Deveraux fought hard. Now I know where Honor gets her grit. But Bree never stood a chance against Bomber. And then I saw her—the little girl standing frozen in place. Honor. She didn’t cry, didn’t scream, just stared at me.

That was the moment everything shifted. The job, the Circle, even my own survival—all of it faded. All that mattered was the girl who had just lost everything, standing there exposed and alone, ready to be slaughtered.

I did what I had to do. I don’t regret saving her. Not for a second. But meeting her again, all these years later, as adults? That’s a regret I can’t shake.

I force myself to move, stepping out of the truck and walking up the path. I knock, and a woman answers—a stranger, holding a toddler on her hip.

“Can I help you?” she asks, her tone polite but cautious.

“Sorry to bother you,” I say. “I was wondering if you knew anything about the previous owners of this house.”

She frowns, shifting the kid to her other hip. “We’ve only been here a couple of years. I think the house has had a lot of owners before us. Why do you ask?”

I keep it vague. “Just following up on some old history.”

She shrugs, clearly ready to close the door. “Sorry. I don’t know much about that. Maybe one of the neighbors could help.”

I thank her and head back to the street. The neighbors don’t know much either. A few mention that the house has changed hands too many times to count. Some of them knew Dalton or Bree Deveraux. But when I ask about any relatives, I get nothing but blank stares and mumbled apologies.

Back in the truck, I pull out the library printouts, flipping through them until I reach the final set. A pattern emerges from the articles, a detail I hadn’t noticed before. Multiple sources confirm that Honor was placed in foster care after the murders.

Kalispell hasn’t given me much, but it’s given me enough to keep moving.

32

CHASE

The air of the Kalispell Child Services office feels like it hasn’t moved in years. A single oscillating fan whirs weakly in the corner, its halfhearted breeze doing little to combat the tension coiling in my chest.

The receptionist’s desk is cluttered with forms and a cheerful potted plant that’s seen better days. I scan the walls—motivational posters, faded from sunlight, and a bulletin board advertising parenting classes. Nothing useful. The scent of old coffee lingers, faint but persistent, like the ghosts of bad decisions and long waits. But I’m not here to wait.

I approach the desk and flash my most cooperative smile, the one I save for situations when charm works better than muscle.

“I’m looking for information on a case from twelve years ago,” I say, setting down the folded printouts from the library I’ve carried like a weapon. “It involves a girl named Honor Deveraux. She would have been placed into foster care after her parents were murdered.”

The receptionist doesn’t even look up from her screen. “Public records aren’t available without the proper authorization,” she says, her nails clicking against the keyboard. “And even then, you’d need to go through formal channels.” A polite stone wall. I’ve seen plenty. But I’ve also torn down a few in my time.

I try again. “Look, I know it’s a long shot, but I’m not here to dig through her past—I’m here for her safety. To protect her, I need to know where she was placed, in case she tries to make contact.” My voice dips, just enough to show a hint of frustration—enough to make it clear I’m not walking out without answers.

“I need authorization, the police station isn’t far from here,” she says, almost shooing me away.

“I’m Chase Samson from Red Mark Rescue & Protect.” I show her my ID. Sometimes just by looking legit can push things along.

Before she can refuse me again, a man in a rumpled shirt and a loosely knotted tie steps into the waiting area, his eyes flicking between me and the desk.

“You’re looking for Honor Deveraux’s records?” he asks, his voice carrying that bureaucratic blend of skepticism and weariness. He gestures for me to follow him into his office before I can respond.

Once inside, the door closes with a soft click. He leans back in his chair, appraising me like I’m a puzzle he’s not sure he wants to solve. “Mr. Samson, public records are restricted for a reason. Foster placements are confidential. You understand that, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” I say, matching his tone with my own brand of calm determination. “But I also understand that rules have exceptions. I’m not here to upset the system. I’m here because Honor is in danger.”

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