Page 83 of Her Remarkable Protector
“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.
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.
