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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.”

“In danger? Then you should involve the police!”

“I’m working closely with Bozeman PD. Call Captain Freeman, he’ll be able to give you what you need,” I say, sounding as authoritative as possible, then give one of Freeman’s name cards. The captain doesn’t like me doing that, but this isn’t just an everyday thing. His irritation means nothing to me.

He raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You can’t just walk in here and expect me to hand over information. That’s not how this works.”

I lean forward, lowering my voice. “Talk to Captain Freeman. Please.”

He exhales slowly, his eyes narrowing. I can see the wheels turning, the conflict between protocol and something else—maybe decency, maybe exhaustion. Not many people are enthusiastic about talking to a police captain. Finally, he pulls a file from a drawer and flips it open, keeping his hand over most of the contents.

“She was placed with a family in Kalispell,” he says, his tone measured. “The Martins. Small ranch near the west border. That’s all I can give you.”

“Thank you,” I say.

* * *

The Martins are no help. They stare blankly when I mention Honor’s name. “We couldn’t make it work with her,” the man says. His wife doesn’t even glance up from her tablet. Still, at least he gave me a lead on where Honor was transferred next.

The second family—a squat woman with hair pulled so tight it looks painful and a man with an unyielding expression—is worse.

“That kid was nothing but trouble!” the woman barks before I can even finish my sentence. She folds her arms tightly, her lips twisting into a sneer. “What’s she gotten herself into this time? Isn’t she an adult by now? Or is she still playing at being a reckless child?”

I keep my composure despite this unpleasant encounter. “I’m just trying to find her.”

“Good luck with that,” she sneers, her husband remaining silent, content to let her do the talking.

“Do you know where Honor went after she left your family?”

“Still around here, two or three streets down. For a while, I ran into her sometimes.”

“Can you give me a name?”

“No idea. But the house is at the end,” she says. “Really, don’t let that girl waste your time like she did ours!”

I leave before my temper gets the better of me. They’re not worth it, but the weight of Honor’s hardship settles heavily on my chest. How much of this is because of the Circle? Because of me ?

The third family is my last hope. After knocking on doors at the ends of the next three streets, I finally meet Mrs. Tucker-MacPhee. She has a kind face but tired eyes, and she hesitates when I ask about Honor.

“She tried to run away once,” she admits quietly. “We caught her heading for the Canadian border.”

“Canada?” I echo, my pulse spiking. “Do you know who she was going to?”

She shrugs, her expression teetering between guilt and frustration. “I’ve got no clue. Maybe someone convinced her the bears were fatter up there. Who knows?” The weak attempt at humor falls flat when she catches my reaction.

She restarts, “Look, Honor was a fragile kid. Probably wasn’t thinking straight then.”

Fragile? No, they don’t know her. They’ve never seen the Honor I know—smart, determined, unbreakable. God, if only they could see what I see.

I excuse myself and head back to my car, frustration simmering in my chest. Once inside, I dial Ethan.

“Got anything?” I ask, forcing my voice to stay steady.

Ethan’s voice comes through. “Well timed, partner. There have been sightings of Honor near the Flathead County Coroner’s Office. Might be worth checking out.”

“When was this?”

“Yesterday.”

My hands fidget against the steering wheel, tapping in an unsteady rhythm as a small hope stirs within me.

The thought of heading straight to the Coroner’s Office nags at me, but as I start the car and ease onto the road, my instincts pull me in another direction. It’s not just that I’m sure Honor’s already gone—it’s Kalispell itself. Something feels off. Too busy. The cars, the faces, the way some people linger just a beat too long.

These aren’t locals, and I don’t mean tourists. Stone’s men are here. Damon’s already sniffing around. Somehow, he’s caught the scent of Honor too. I’m not the only one looking.

There’s somewhere else I should search. Canada. The thought keeps circling back.

Who could it be? When she gave birth, Ethan and I searched for her relatives. We discovered her parents were deceased, though we had no idea who Dalton and Bree Deveraux really were at the time. Looking back, how close had I been to uncovering the truth?

Beyond her parents, our search revealed that her grandparents were also deceased, leaving only an uncle in France who kept to himself with his own family. Had we overlooked anyone?

I flip through the articles again, revisiting every painful detail of that day. Then it strikes me: that silly T-shirt! I smeared it with her mother’s blood to fool Stone into thinking Honor was already dead. Back then, it felt like nothing—just a kid being silly. But now, it’s a lead I can’t ignore.

My mom is from Canada. Deal with it!

The words flash in my mind. Maybe there’s someone connected to her mother in Canada—a family friend, a distant relative? It’s a long shot, but it’s something.

I tap the touchscreen on the dashboard, pulling up speed dial. “Ethan, get Rhea to dig into Bree Deveraux, maiden name Anson. Check for any connections in Canada.”

As the call disconnects, the dashboard reverts to the navigation screen, but I barely glance at it. My focus stays on the streets. The sense that something’s wrong hasn’t let up.

I glance at the idle display on the dash and mutter, “C’mon, Ethan. Gimme something.”

The minutes drag, ramping up my frustration. Just as I’m about to call Ethan back, the screen lights up with an incoming call.

“Bree had a stepsister,” he says without preamble. “Lives in Cranbrook.”

Hope sparks for a moment, only to dim as a car glides past me. The driver’s eyes lock with mine, assessing, calculating.

Whoever he is, I can’t risk leading him north. Not even a hint.

I make a calculated choice and veer south.

The car drifts away, seeming to lose interest. Maybe it wasn’t Damon’s men after all.

The stretch of I-90 ahead is uneventful, but the reprieve doesn’t last. The same car from before reappears, lingering at a distance. I skip Helena, pressing further south, only to notice another car trailing me, its intent harder to ignore.

Out of nowhere, a car barrels onto the dirt road from a hidden side path, slamming into my vehicle and sending me skidding into the embankment beneath the overpass.

Dust clouds the air as I wrestle the wheel, forcing the car back onto the gravel track. But there’s no time to recover—a second car, one of the two that had been tailing me, suddenly accelerates, ramming me straight into one of the concrete pillars holding up the bridge.

The impact jerks my head forward, my vision swimming as a sickening crunch reverberates through the car. I reach for my gun, but the jarring collision has jammed the holster, seizing up the locking mechanism. Useless. Before I can react further, another car slams into my rear, pinning me in place beneath the overpass.

My hands fumble for the door locks, but it doesn’t matter. They’re on me in seconds. The doors are wrenched open with brutal force. Five men, maybe six. I don’t stop to count.

I lunge, fists flying, landing a solid hit on one of them, but it’s not enough. They swarm me. One clamps my arms while another kicks my legs out from under me. My belt jerks sharply, and I twist, making one last desperate attempt to draw my jammed gun. But one of them cuts the holster loose, leaving me completely unarmed in seconds.

Damn it! These men know exactly what they’re doing—probably drilled this in their morning practice.

They yank me from the car with ferocious strength, dragging me backward. My boots scrape against the pavement as I’m hauled away.

The first man lunges for me, but I’m faster. My elbow connects with his jaw, sending him staggering. The second grabs for my arm, and I twist, yanking him forward into the frame of the car. It’s chaotic, but I use every ounce of strength, every trick I’ve learned over the years. A punch here, a kick there. For a brief moment, I think I might have a chance.

But there are too many of them. One manages to get behind me, slamming something hard into the back of my knee. I buckle, pain shooting up my leg. Another lands a blow to my ribs, the ache stealing my breath. They’re relentless. My vision narrows, darkens, as fists and boots continue to rain down. Still, I keep swinging. I’ll be damned if I make it easy for them.

Half-conscious, I’m dragged from the wreckage and shoved into another vehicle. My head lolls to the side as I try to make sense of my surroundings, but it’s all a blur.

With every ounce of strength I have left, I slam my head into the nearest man’s face. He staggers back, cursing, but the others close in like a pack of hungry hyenas. Fists rain down on me, one after the other. I lash out blindly, my knuckles connecting with something solid, but it’s not enough.

An unforgiving punch sends the world spinning. Blood fills my mouth, and darkness edges in. My body refuses to move, but my mind clings to one thought—I’ll get back up. But it may be too late.