Page 30 of Her Remarkable Protector (Red Mark Rescue & Protect #6)
30
HONOR
Cranbrook, Canada
I can’t believe how fast babies grow. It feels like just yesterday Laramie was a fragile bundle in my arms.
“Happy two-month birthday, baby,” I whisper, cradling her close. No cake, no balloons—just a quiet milestone between the two of us. She stares up at me with wide, curious eyes, her tiny hand brushing against my cheek as if she understands every word.
“Look at your silly big brother,” I say, shifting her so she can see through the window. Outside, Oakley is in the yard, feeding the chickens. He talks to them, his voice animated as he scatters feed around the coop.
Behind him, Aunt Beth stands on the porch, her coat pulled tight against the chill. She’s watching him, her hands on her hips. “Oakley, you’re giving them too much food!” she calls out. “We’re not opening a KFC, darling.” She laughs, her voice warm and full of life.
I smile. Aunt Beth—my mother’s stepsister, the one Mom used to call ‘your Canadian aunty, Honor,’ as if Mom herself wasn’t Canadian anymore. They were close once, but that changed when Mom moved to Kalispell. Distance, time, and life got in the way.
When I searched for her using Mom’s maiden name, Anson, dozens of Beth Ansons popped up—Elizabeths, Bethanys, and every variation in between, from Toronto to here . Cranbrook . Close to Kalispell. It didn’t take me long to put the pieces together.
“I’m better with llamas, Aunt Beth,” Oakley defends himself, his voice carrying across the yard as he tosses another handful of feed.
Aunt Beth shakes her head, laughing. “We’ll see about that!”
The cottage feels like a refuge, cozy and inviting, with its thick wooden beams and the scent of Aunt Beth’s baking lingering in the air. Worn rugs cover the hardwood floors, and the walls are lined with shelves filled with books, framed photos, and little trinkets she has collected over the years. It’s the kind of place that makes you feel safe, even if the world outside is anything but.
But even here, the weight of unfinished promises presses down on me. It kills me that I haven’t kept my word to Oakley about taking him back to see Ethan and Noah.
And then there’s the other thing—the thing I can’t seem to shake. A part of me, however small, wants to believe that Chase didn’t kill my father. Maybe it’s just an empty hope. Either way, I need to know. And today is the day.
“Aunt Beth,” I say, turning toward her as she steps inside, brushing snow from her coat. “Can I leave Laramie with you for a few hours?”
Beth arches an eyebrow. “Where are you going?”
“Kalispell.”
She frowns, her hands pausing on the scarf she’s untying. “There’s nothing left for you there, Honor. You know, I never understood why your mother gave up her life here, all in the name of love. Don’t get me wrong. I know you loved your father, and I love you, but I never shared the same sentiment.”
“I just need an answer,” I say, adjusting Laramie in my arms. With things finally settled, our haven with Aunt Beth secure, it’s time to find out if there’s such a thing as a good truth about my father’s death.
Aunt Beth nods, understanding without words, and I pass Laramie to her. The tiny body stirs, then settles against her shoulder.
And so I’m on my way to dig up a point in my history that will surely undo me, in the name of truth. My father’s death has haunted me for years, a story I once believed was black and white. Then I met his killer—a man who left a mark on my heart I couldn’t erase. He denied it with every fiber of his being. Now, I have to find out if he was lying or if I got it wrong. If I don’t, I’ll never be free of it. And the truth? It could change everything.
Damn Chase Samson. His face, his voice, the way he looked at me like I was his whole world. And the way he loved me—and yes, the way he fucked me, too—was like nothing I’d ever known. I’d never felt so seen, so cherished. He has left me with a crater filled with longing, restless uncertainty, and endless what-ifs.
This trip isn’t just about my father. It’s also about answering the question I’ve been avoiding for months: whether Chase deserves my forgiveness—or if I deserve his.
My mind races the entire way, a battle between hope and dread. What if the truth I find only brings more questions?
When I finally pull into the lot outside the Flathead County Coroner’s Office, my hands tremble on the wheel. I take a deep breath, steadying myself before stepping out. The building is small, unassuming, but what I’m about to find inside feels monumental.
The front desk is manned by a middle-aged woman with short, graying hair and glasses perched on her nose. She glances up as I approach, her expression neutral but not unfriendly.
“Can I help you?” she asks, her fingers pausing on the keyboard.
“Yes,” I say, my voice steady despite the knot in my stomach. “I’m looking for an autopsy report. My father’s.”
Her brows knit together. “We don’t typically release autopsy reports to just anyone. You’ll need to be next of kin, and even then, there’s a process.”
“I understand,” I reply quickly, pulling out my driver’s license and sliding it across the counter. “My name is Honor Deveraux. Dalton Deveraux was my father. The report is from twelve years ago.”
She picks up my ID, studying it before looking back at me. “Do you have anything else to confirm your relationship? A birth certificate?”
I reach into my bag and pull out a small photo. It’s worn, creased from years of being folded to fit inside a pocket mirror, its exterior as plain as a Revlon freebie.
With a flick of my wrist, I slide the photo across the counter—a snapshot of my father holding me when I was ten, my mother laughing beside him.
“They were murdered a year after that picture was taken.”
The woman’s expression shifts, stiffening as though absorbing a sudden blow. “You’re… Honor Deveraux?”
“Yeah. That’s what my driver’s license says.”
Her stance softens, and she nods. “I used to live on your street. I’m sorry for everything you went through.”
“Thank you. Please, can you help me?”
“Wait here.” Rising from her seat, she disappears through a door behind the counter.
I tap my fingers on the counter, the seconds stretching into what feels like hours. When she finally returns, she’s holding a thin file.
“I’m not supposed to do this,” she says quietly, handing it over. “But you deserve to know.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, my throat tight. I take the file with trembling hands and step aside to open it.
I draw in a long breath, holding myself together as the image of my father sprawled on the floor flashes in my mind. His shirt was drenched in blood, but what remains etched in my memory is the distinct circular mark on his forehead. It was almost a perfect circle, with only a few splashes of red, serving as a stark contrast to his chest. I was just a kid back then, and years have blurred many things, but not this. It wasn’t just the memory of what I saw, but the pull I felt. I wanted to look at my father’s face, to say goodbye, yet my attention stayed fixed on that mark.
The image lingers as my eyes shift to the diagrams and explanations in front of me, willing myself to focus.
Most of the descriptions are familiar. Initially, he was shot in the chest, with the bullet directly striking his heart from close range. This explains the blood that soaked his garments.
The second shot to his forehead was distinct. No gunpowder residue, no tattooing. If the gun had been fired up close, unburnt particles would have embedded in the skin, leaving a telltale mark. The absence of it only confirmed what I already knew: the shot came from a distance.
Chase had fired from the second floor.
And my memory was right—only a small amount of blood was at the wound.
The report reinforces what I’ve suspected all along, but I keep digging, needing more. And then—I see it.
A sound escapes me, caught between a sigh and a growl, as my vision blurs with unshed tears. I snap the folder shut before they can spill onto the pages.
I press a trembling hand to my mouth.
The woman watches me closely. “Are you okay?”
I nod, words stuck in my throat. “Thank you,” I manage, my voice strained, before making a quick exit.