Page 9 of Her Remarkable Protector
“Honor. Honor Deveraux.”
She slides a photo across the table.
I pick it up.
The woman’s face is mostly hidden by her hair as she looks down, but something about the image stirs me. It’s unexpected. Like simplicity, like honesty. It’s not the bright yellow dress or her auburn hair, windswept and untamed. It’s the movement captured in the shot: her hand resting protectively on her swelling belly, her smile so candid I can almost hear the moment unfold.
“I need more than this,” I say, placing the photo down. “Do you have anything that shows her face?”
“I thought you were an expert,” she counters. “Can’t you figure it out from that photo?”
“I’m not a forensic artist, Mrs. Stone.”
“Fine!” she snaps, swiping through the photo gallery on her phone. “I just don’t like looking at her eyes. But there might be a few Damon took—like he didn’t have his own phone. Oh, here.” She thrusts the phone in my direction.
The woman on the screen isn’t what I expected from the first photo. The same shy smile is there, but her eyes—those eyes—are something else entirely. They’re impossibly deep, the kind that could make someone like Mira Stone hate looking at them. There’s a quiet defiance in her expression, a fierceness that speaks of a lifetime of battles she’s not ready to lose.
“She’s pretty, I know,” Mira sneers. “But don’t be fooled by those green eyes.”
“How far along is she?”
“How the fuck should I know when Damon knocked her up?”
I tilt my head, holding her gaze, pressing her to cut the attitude and give me a real answer.
“I don’t know,” she exhales. “Last trimester, for sure, but I couldn’t tell you exactly. But she’s notthatbig yet.”
I glance at the photo again. “Will you send this to me?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.
“Of course.”
“And your son?” I add, handing her phone back. “Do you have a recent picture?”
Mira hesitates, her fingers hovering over her designer bag before pulling out a worn photo. “This is him when he was seven,” she says. “He still looks the same—just taller. He doesn’t like photos anymore.”
Something doesn’t sit right, but I push the thought aside. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Last week,” she replies curtly.
“Did you witness the kidnapping?”
“No.”
“And what makes you think Ms. Deveraux is responsible?”
Her nails tap once against the table. “They both disappeared.”
That earlier comment tugs at me.Damon’s been looking for her.Notthem.Why single her out?
“You said your husband has been looking for her. How long?”
“A couple of weeks.”
“So Ms. Deveraux disappeared first?”
She sighs. “Fine! She was gone way before Oakley. But I know it’s her—I don’t need proof. That’s mother’s instinct talking.”
Mother’s instinct. Thin at best, but if I push my bias aside, maybe it carries some weight. Trusting her, though—that’ll take time.
