Page 31

31

CHASE

I make coffee, stretching stiffly as I wait for the pot to finish. Going back to sleep in my own bed feels like trading one nightmare for another. The house may be repaired after the gas attack, but my mind isn’t. Sleep barely brushed against me last night.

The background noise of the news fades into the periphery until a single phrase cuts through, yanking my attention.

This morning, Missoula Police discovered the body of a woman ? —

My heart slams against my ribcage, a sick churn rolling in my stomach.

“No! No!” The words burst from me.

—believed to be that of missing grandmother Anita Soren…

I exhale. It’s not her. Not Honor. But it doesn’t stop the bile from rising. It’s not the first time a headline like this has left me on the edge of retching, haunted by the knowledge she wasn’t with me.

Forgetting is never easy, but with Honor, it’s worse than remembering. I’ve tried brushing it off, pretending it’s just how life works. I’ve tried meditation. I’ve tried convincing myself she wasn’t my problem anymore—she didn’t want me in the first place, hell, she wanted to kill me! But every attempt only makes it worse. It’s like bracing for a storm that never hits but never lets up, the tension constant, twenty-four-seven.

I draw a deep breath, struggling to function. Coffee—that’s all I need right now.

But before I can take the first sip, a text message. Captain Freeman: It’s official. Damon Stone has been released.

This time, I stumble toward the sink and empty my stomach, the nausea overpowering. “Fuck!” I spit out.

Call it denial. Call it stupidity. But the truth remains the same—Honor is never safe as long as Damon Stone is out there, breathing free air. And I am responsible.

I rake a trembling hand through my hair, anger and regret boiling together into a poisonous brew.

I shouldn’t have let her go. What the hell was I thinking?

Grabbing my coffee to go, I hit the road again. The memory loops in my head like a bad track on repeat—the last time I still had the sense to watch over her and the kids. Honor, driving off with Oakley and Laramie in the backseat, heading north after leaving the llama farm. She thought I wasn’t watching, but I was. Of course I was. The instinct to protect her was too ingrained to ignore.

I followed her, staying far enough back that she wouldn’t notice. I kept my distance for a few miles before pulling the plug on my own resolve. Like a damn fool, I turned the car around. Told myself to let her go. Reminded myself I was just her hired muscle. The guy she used for security—and comfort—only when she felt like it.

This feels almost worse than leaving her under her mother’s body. That time, I had no choice. But now? This time, I chose to let her go.

I dial Ethan.

“I’ve got to find Honor,” I say the moment he picks up. “Damon’s out.”

“That bastard!” Ethan growls. “I’m coming with you.”

“No,” I counter firmly. “If you want to play boss, here’s your shot. Hold the fort while I’m gone.”

“Aye aye, sir,” he replies, no hesitation in his tone.

“Ethan, when she left the farm, did she say anything about where she was headed?”

“No. Just that she had a plan.”

“Did Oakley mention anything?”

“Nothing. Sorry, Chase.”

“All right,” I sigh. “I’ll call if I need backup. Keep the team on their toes.”

“You just get to Honor,” Ethan says, his voice weighted. “We’ll be ready.”

* * *

Time has passed. She could be anywhere. North—that’s the only lead I’ve got. She went north.

Knowing her, there’s only one place that makes sense: Kalispell. The place where it all began. The thought lodges in my mind, stubborn and immovable. If she’s searching for answers, or running from the Circle, Kalispell is where she’ll be. I just pray Damon hasn’t pieced it together. He was never one for details—names, places, they slipped past him when he was a bulldozing debt collector. Even now, sitting at the top of the chain, I hope his ignorance hasn’t changed.

I drive through Kalispell’s quiet streets, my eyes scanning every face, every car, every shadowed corner. No sign of her. Not that I expected any. Honor wouldn’t risk being seen—not if she’s lying low.

This won’t be easy. It never is.

The town’s busier than I remember, yet it carries a weight of history I can’t ignore. It’s tied to her in ways I’ve barely begun to understand. And to find her, I’ll have to go back—to the darkest moments of my life.

But for her, I’ll do it.

I park the truck on the curb, stepping into the local library. The smell of aged paper and polished wood hits me, a familiar scent that brings a fleeting sense of calm. The librarian points me to the back corner, where I find the archives.

It takes time—longer than I’d like—but patience is a SEAL’s weapon, one I’ve relied on more times than I can count. Finally, the headline jumps out at me like a slap to the face.

Tragedy in Kalispell: Couple Murdered in Shocking Home Invasion.

I skim the article, the words colliding with my own memories and stirring a guilt I can’t shake. But I push it aside, forcing myself to focus. Dalton Deveraux. Bree Deveraux. Honor’s parents. The incident wasn’t just a tragedy—it was a scar frozen in time.

The house. My stomach churns as the black-and-white photo stares back at me from the page. I don’t need to see it to know every detail—I might as well be standing in front of it now. It’s burned into my mind, a haunting image of loss no child should ever have to endure.

I push myself up and head back to the librarian. “I need a printout of this.” I point to the article still illuminated on the machine’s screen.

“Of course,” she says, moving with efficiency as she prints the page. “Anything else?”

I hesitate. “If there are any other articles about this case, I’ll need those too.”

“I’ll pull what I can.”

The librarian processes my request quickly, offering a polite nod as I leave. The printouts are folded neatly in my jacket pocket. I start the engine, the rumble signaling a point of no return. Back to where it all began.

The neighborhood hasn’t changed much—same quiet streets, same big trees leaning over the sidewalks like they’re watching everything unfold. The house itself looks ordinary. Just another home with a fresh coat of paint and a neatly trimmed lawn.

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.