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HONOR DEVERAUX

Big Sky, Montana

My life is a collection of boxes. They’re stacked on top of one another, precarious but deliberate. They build on each other—brick by brick of pain, resolve, and calculated schemes—but they remain separate. Compartmentalized. I retrieve, and I discard. But I never forget.

Damon Stone stands before me. “You’ll be here when I come back?” The growl in his voice is less a question and more an order as he straps on his gear—a sidearm at his hip, a concealed gun under his jacket, and a blade strapped to his ankle. He’s a box I plan to discard soon, one that’s served its purpose—to get a name.

“Of course,” I reply, resting a hand on my belly. The gesture is instinctive, protective. It isn’t for him—nothing I do is ever for him. I’m shielding my baby, silently warning Damon to stay in his lane. Not that he’d ever notice, let alone decipher, the silent threat. Men like him are good at reading fear, but they never recognize defiance until it’s too late.

He scoffs, shaking his head as if I’ve just confirmed every low expectation he has of me. “You’re not my wife. But that’s my blood in there,” he says, nodding at my stomach, his voice edged with steel. “Mess this up, and you’ll wish it was anyone else you owed. D’you understand?”

“Of course.” The words spill out again, practiced and hollow, a mantra that no longer burns on my tongue.

Behind me, his young teenage son watches. Oakley Stone is a boy caught between a desperate need to earn his father’s approval and a life he’s already beginning to resent.

At the door, Damon’s right-hand man, calls out. “Stone, let’s roll. We’re burnin’ time here.” Patch glances at me, clicking his tongue. “Be good, sweetheart.”

The sound barely leaves his mouth before Damon shoves him, clearly not in the mood for Patch’s antics.

The door slams shut.

“Hey, Honor,” Oakley calls. “Think I can head out for a bit? The crew’s hitting the park—gonna shred for a while.”

Skating is his thing, and by ‘shred,’ he means pulling off tricks and tearing up the ramps on his board. I know there’s no point in saying, ‘Ask your mother.’ Mira Stone’s probably off getting high somewhere.

“Yeah, go on,” I say.

For a moment, I let the silence settle around me. But it’s not relief filling my chest—it’s the grind of gears as I map out my next move against Damon.

He doesn’t know who I am. Not really. He thinks he does, thinks I’m another woman trapped under his thumb. He’s the top dog, the man everyone fears. But fear isn’t power, and he doesn’t collect boxes like I do. He’s just a role player in the twisted drama of my life.

The first time I saw him, I was only eleven. He was his father’s puppet. A debt collector who knew his victims only by aliases, never bothering to uncover the lives he was unraveling. Last summer I found him, came to him, and I let him believe in the illusion of control because I needed to get to another man—the man with real blood on his hands. The one name Damon finally let slip during an innocent conversation the other day. He thought I was reminiscing, stroking his ego, feeding his sense of invincibility. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

The man I’m after is elusive, his whereabouts a mystery. But I remember his eyes. I’ll always remember his eyes. And he isn’t just a box I plan to discard—he’s one I’ve vowed to destroy.

* * *

Kalispell, Montana – age 11

The fishing basket swings in my hand as we walk up the driveway, and I can’t stop grinning. Coming home with Dad feels like magic, like a wish I didn’t think would come true. After all the years apart—after Mom left him—they somehow found their way back to each other.

And now, here I am, fresh from a fishing trip to Flathead Lake, feeling like the luckiest kid alive. He’s here. For good. I don’t have to pretend anymore, imagining him beside me. He’s really here. He’s my dad again, and this time, he’s staying.

“I don’t know why you keep wearing that T-shirt!” Dad comments.

“You gave it to me.”

“You tricked me into giving it to you.”

“I didn’t!” I insist.

“Come on, Skip. You told me I was buying you a T-shirt. Not a custom print one,” he nods at the ‘My mom is from Canada. Deal with it!’ slogan. “You know your mom gave me a hard time.”

“But she got over it, didn’t she?”

“Yeah. Eventually.” He flattens his lips. “You should just ignore those kids, okay? You are who you are, your mother is who she is.”

“Well, that’s why I’m wearing this tee.”

He tousles my hair. “God, you grow up fast!”

A grin is my response.

“So, what are you going to ask your mother to do with the fish this time?” Dad asks, holding up a glistening trout.

“Grilled!” I blurt, barely needing to think about it. Mom’s cooking is famous in our house, but grilled fish is the best—especially with herbs, roast potatoes, and veggies. “Just no Brussels sprouts!”

I race ahead to push open the front door, ready to yell, We’re home! But the words freeze in my throat.

Mom is kneeling behind the cabinet, her hands clutching something, her face furious. Dad freezes beside me, the fish slipping lower in his grasp.

“Bree, I can explain,” Dad says, his tone already defensive.

“Don’t even try!” Mom spits, holding up one of the wrapped bundles—a brick of brown paper that I know all too well. “Property of S.C.? Are you kidding me?”

Dad turns to me. “Skipper, go to your room!”

I don’t move right away. I don’t need anyone to spell it out for me. Those bricks aren’t just packages—they’re poison. Dad never stopped. Selling. Using. Lying. I know what he’s done. I’ve always known.

But now Mom knows, too. Poor Mom. She really believed he’d left it all behind.

“Honor! Go to your room!” Dad barks this time.

I drop the basket and bolt upstairs as they start arguing. The walls seem thinner than usual, their voices coming through the cracks. My bed feels like the only safe place, so I crawl deep into it. I tie my hair into a ponytail, slip on my headset, and crank up the music, drowning out the smothering fight below.

Minutes feel like hours before the shouting finally stops. The door creaks open, and Mom steps inside. Her face is pale, and she looks unsure, like she’s not even sure how to begin.

She waves for me to take off my headset. “Honor, honey?”

“I’m fine,” I snap.

“I know you are. We girls are tough, aren’t we?” She sits on the edge of my bed, her weight making it sink a little. “But I need to apologize. You shouldn’t have seen that. I should’ve handled it better.”

I shrug, pretending I’m cooler than I feel. “I’m not a kid anymore, Mom. I know what’s going on.”

And I do. I know exactly who S.C. is—or rather, who they are. The Stoneborn Circle. Nobody talks about them, but I’ve heard the whispers. I’ve even heard Dad mention them.

Mom’s shoulders slump, and her lips press together like she’s searching for the right words. She’s about to say something when?—

Bam. The front door slams open so hard it shakes the walls. Definitely kicked.

“Smells fishy in here!” a man’s voice booms, slick and cocky. I don’t know him, but his tone screams trouble. “Saw the truck, saw the fishing gear. Smells like y’all had a good haul.”

Mom jerks into action, shoving me off the bed. “Closet. Now. Don’t make a sound.”

I scramble into the closet, heart hammering. She shuts the bedroom door behind her, moving quietly. Mom left the force for love—some twisted idea of it, anyway—but she’s never stopped being a cop. Not in the ways that count.

Downstairs, the guy’s voice grows louder. “You’re a fuckin’ thief, old man! You know what happens to people who cross the Stoneborns?”

Dad’s voice cuts in, desperate, shaky. “I was gonna give it back! I swear!”

“Jackpot’s right here, boys!” the guy yells, loud enough for whoever’s with him to hear.

“You got it. You want it. Take it!” Dad pleads. “Just... just take it and go.”

This is bad.

At school, the so-called cool kids love to joke about my parents. A Canadian cop and a Montanan ex-prisoner—what does that make their kid? I let my T-shirt do the talking. But the whispers about the Stoneborn Circle stuck in my head, no matter how hard I tried to shove them into the back of my brain. I didn’t want to believe it. I told myself Dad wouldn’t go there. He wouldn’t.

But he did.

Dad always knew how to find the wrong kind of people. And now, they’ve found him.

“We don’t just take and leave. The boss calls it a ‘retribution fee.’” His laugh sets off chuckles from the others as he continues, “And let’s face it—you don’t have the cash to make it right.”

Dad keeps begging, his words overlapping theirs, all of it blending into a mess.

Until a shot rips through the house, and everything goes silent.

The closet. What was Mom thinking? It’s the worst place to hide. Everyone knows bad guys always check there first.

The voices downstairs rise in argument, but none of them belong to my father. How many are there? Three? Four? I can’t tell.

I need to move.

I slip out of my bedroom, stealthily making my way to the bathroom. There’s a cupboard, big enough for me to squeeze into. It smells like bleach, with just a couple of bottles shoved in the corner—it’ll be perfect.

I barely make it halfway when Mom appears at the top of the stairs, a silhouette against the dim light. Her gun is steady, aimed down the staircase.

Mom’s hand digs into my shoulder, pushing me toward the hall. “Go!” she snaps. I don’t know where, but she thinks I do—she always trusts me to figure it out.

A man rounds the bend of the stairs. With the wall between me and him, I freeze, pressing my back, trying to disappear into the wallpaper.

Then everything explodes. I don’t know who’s shooting who.

My legs move on autopilot, my hands clamped over my ears to block the chaos behind me.

But then it stops.

The gunfire. The yelling.

My feet are glued to the floor.

Slowly, though knowing it’s a bad idea, I turn around.

The hallway feels endless, and in the distance, I see him—a man crouched over Mom’s still body.

“What the fuck, Bomber!” the man snarls, his voice cracking with fury. He’s kneeling next to her, his gloved hands fumbling as he checks her. “You didn’t have to go this far!”

Come on, Mom.

She’s pretending. She has to be pretending. Any second now, she’ll strike, take them all out, show them why they should’ve never come here.

But nothing happens.

“Mom…” The word slips out, trembling on my lips.

“Argh, shit!” The second man—Bomber—spins, his gun snapping toward me.

“No! Leave the kid alone!” the crouching man barks, his voice rough but frantic.

“Never leave a witness, buddy,” Bomber growls, his finger tightening on the trigger.

I don’t look at him. I can’t. My eyes stay locked on the first man, crouched over my mother.

Why am I staring at him? Hoping he’ll help me? He’s just as bad as the other one—maybe worse.

I hold my breath. Maybe if I don’t breathe, it won’t hurt as much. I don’t want it to hurt. I’m not brave like Mom or Dad.

But I can’t stop staring. And then something shifts.

His face changes.

He is going to help me .

He grabs my mother’s gun. So fast I can’t even see what he’s doing. For a moment, I think… maybe I was wrong.

I flinch, waiting for the pain.

It doesn’t come.

When I open my eyes, Bomber is on the ground. Still. Very still.

The first man is on his feet now. He returns the gun to my mother’s grip, then turns to me. He snatches my hand, yanking me further away from the hallway, but I’m as stiff as a wooden doll.

“Yo! What’s going on up there?” A third voice echoes from downstairs.

Before I know it, he lifts me onto his hip. I’m not that small, but he carries me like it’s second nature. From up here, I notice how tall he really is.

“I’m sorry,” he keeps saying, over and over. “I’m so sorry.”

I can’t tell if I’m the one shaking, or if he is too.

But he’s holding me tight, like I matter. Like he knows how scared I am of the pain.

“What the hell’s going on up there?” The voice persists, louder.

The man freezes, his arms tightening around me. “It’s all under control!” he shouts to his comrade.

He spins around, his eyes darting all over the room, like he’s searching for something. He looks younger than Bomber, maybe he’s still in high school—a junior, tops. I can tell he’s scared. But his grip on me doesn’t shake. It’s like he’s trying to protect me.

“Is there a way out? A balcony? Another staircase?” His voice is rough but quiet. For a second, I see it in his face—desperation. “C’mon, kid, think. Any exits?”

But then I hear the heavy boots on the stairs, louder now. Whoever’s coming is almost here.

“Shit!” he snaps, panic slipping into his voice. His head jerks around, frantic. Then, suddenly, he drops to his knees and lays me down right next to my mom.

“Stay still!” he whisper-hisses, turning me face-down on the floor. His hand presses against my back, smearing something on my T-shirt. Thick. Sticky. He snaps my hair tie and lets the strands fall, scattering them across my face. “Don’t move, do you hear me?”

He then lays Mom’s body over me. My chest bobs up and down so hard it makes her body move with me. I retch, gasping for air. I can’t do this!

“Stay fucking still!” Junior growls under his breath.

The third man is closing in. What will he do to me if he finds me? Kidnap me? Beat me up? Perhaps I’ll feel that pain after all.

The man from the stairs arrives, his voice pissed. “You call this under control? I was out five minutes and this?”

I have to believe I’m already dead. Because if that man sees me, he’ll make it true. I close my eyes and imagine I’m just… nothing. It’s like pulling a curtain across a stage, shutting out the lights and the crowd. I used to do that sometimes in my head during school plays. Pretend I wasn’t there, pretend I was anywhere else.

But this isn’t a play. This is real.

Still, something inside me whispers I have to block it all out—shut everything off, like I’m not part of it. Like I’m a box of old books someone forgot about. Yes, a box is much better than hiding behind a curtain.

So I do.

I stay as still as I can, like I’m invisible.

“You said it was only the old man, Stone!” Junior fires back.

“Jesus, what a mess!” the guy—Stone—grumbles as he explores the room, heavy boots thudding across the floor.

“Yeah, well, the bitch tried to pop me,” Junior growls. “Bomber got to her first. Took care of both of ‘em. But mama was feisty. She got him too.”

“Wait—” Stone pauses. “That jerk had a kid?”

Footsteps move closer. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, my breath hitching as someone looms over me.

“You’re fuckin’ kidding me,” Stone snarls.

Then Junior’s voice cuts through, and he does something to pull Stone away from me. “She was just a kid, you asshole! I didn’t sign up for this!”

There’s a scuffle. Something heavy—Stone, probably—shuffles backward as Junior’s voice rises. “I’m done, man! I’m out!”

“No, you ain’t!” Stone growls, his tone like iron. “You think you can just walk? We don’t leave witnesses.”

“There’s no fuckin’ witness!” Junior spits.

I sense Stone leaning in, his shadow swallowing me. “Don’t forget what you owe me.” The click of a gun cocking follows. “Now quit whining and search the damn house.”

Footsteps echo away. Stone stomps toward what must be my parents’ bedroom, and another set heads in the opposite direction—Junior’s, moving toward my room. I hear cabinets and doors being slammed open, furniture overturned, their voices blending with the sound of destruction as they tear through the place.

Junior knew what Stone would do. Knew he’d look everywhere. And as disgusting as it is, keeping me here—lying still beneath my mother’s body—was the only way to keep me alive.

I can’t tell if that’s mercy or cruelty.

“See?” Junior’s voice echoes back, louder now. “Ain’t nobody here!”

His boots move toward the end of the hallway, the sound fading with each step.

I hear Stone’s laugh above me, his boots tapping around the room like he’s pacing for fun. My breath catches as he kicks my mother’s body aside, leaving me exposed.

I clamp my eyes shut, holding my breath, every muscle locking into place. Only my hair masks me now.

“Shit, he’s still alive!” Junior suddenly shouts from a distance.

What? Dad is still alive?

Stone forgets me instantly. His footsteps rush toward where Junior is.

Should I get up and go to Dad? I lift my head a fraction but stop. The men on the landing would spot me long before I reached him.

Then a gunshot rings out.

“No shit! The jerk actually moved?” Stone growls.

“He did,” Junior smirks. “Ain’t moving now.”

I cry, my chest hurting so bad it feels like I can’t breathe. No! Dad! Why?

I can’t stop the sobs. If the men find me, so be it. It’s not fair! It’s so cruel!

Someone is rushing downstairs. It’s Stone. His voice carries up the stairwell. “You hit bullseye from up there? Damn, you’re a talent, lil’ brother!” He laughs. “Now quit the showboating and get down here. We’ve got to haul this motherload back to HQ—the old man’s been nagging me nonstop. Ah, hell, speak of the devil!” His words overlap with the ringtone. He must be stepping outside, his voice trailing into a grumble.

The room falls quiet again. I think they’ve left. But then I hear the creak of the floorboards. Junior, crouching next to me.

“I’m sorry,” he quavers. “Once we’re gone, you run. Do you hear me? Run until you can’t anymore.”

I force my eyes open, locking onto his. For a moment, I see someone else—someone who could’ve been my big brother in another life. A high school football player who keeps bullies at bay, buys you ice cream, and teaches you how to ride a horse.

But he’s not that person. He’s a killer.

He killed my dad.

And I’ll never forget that.