Page 38 of Wraith’s Promise

"Hi," I say, standing and extending my hand. "I'm Quinn Porter. Thanks for coming in."

"Jessica Marin." She shakes my hand with a firm grip. "I, uh, saw your ad online. About hiring ex-military as childcare providers?"

"That's right. Please, sit." I gesture to the chair across from my desk and settle back into my own. "Tell me about your service."

We spend the next forty-five minutes going through her history: Army, six years, combat medic, honorable discharge three months ago. She's struggling to adjust to civilian life, can't find work that feels meaningful, misses the structure and purpose the military provided.

I know the feeling.

"The thing is," Jessica says, leaning forward, "I love kids. Always have. But every childcare job I've applied for takes one look at my resume and decides I'm too intense, too militant, too..." She trails off, frustrated.

"Too capable?" I supply with a knowing smile. "Too competent? Too skilled at things that make suburban parents uncomfortable?"

"Exactly." Relief floods her face. "You get it."

"I absolutely get it." I pull out a tablet and open the file I've been building. "I started this business a few years ago because I was exactly where you are now. Ex-military, no idea what to do with myself, desperate for something that mattered. I got lucky. I found a family that needed someone with my specific skill set during a difficult time. It changed my life."

"Your husband?" Jessica asks, glancing at the wedding ring on my left hand. "He was the family?"

"He was. Single dad with a five-year-old daughter, needed someone who could protect his child and still be good with kids. I was that someone." I smile at the memory, showing up on Dean's porch in pigtails with a floral bag, having no idea I was about to meet the two people who would become my entire world. "We've been married for five years now. Our daughter just turned eleven."

"That's... wow. That's amazing."

"It is amazing. And it made me realize there are other families out there who need what we can provide. Protection, yes, but also genuine care. Someone who won't flinch when things get dangerous, who can handle emergencies, who knows how to plan and prepare and stay three steps ahead. But who also understands that kids need patience, kindness and someone who shows up every single day."

Jessica nods slowly. "That's what you do here, right? Match ex-military with families who need that combination?"

"Exactly. I have clients all over the state now. Single parents in dangerous situations, families with custody disputes, witness protection cases, even a few celebrities who want security for their kids that doesn't look like security." I pull up my current openings. "I'm very selective about who I hire. It's not just about military service. It's about temperament, references, background checks, psychological evaluations. I need people who can actually connect with children, not just guard them."

We talk for another hour. I run through my requirements, expectations, training protocols. Sentinel doesn't just hire ex-military and throw them at families. We provide ongoing support, continuing education, mental health resources. I learned early that a lot of us are carrying trauma that doesn't just disappear because we're out of the service and ignoring it doesn't help anyone.

By the time Jessica leaves with a promise that I'll call within the week after completing her background check, I'm confident she'll be a good fit.

The bell chimes again almost immediately after she leaves. This time it's Mariah, backpack slung over one shoulder, dark curls pulled into a ponytail, enormous brown eyes bright with excitement.

"Mom!" She launches herself at me and I catch her, even though at eleven she's getting too big for this. "Guess what happened at school today!"

"What happened?" I ask, smoothing her hair back from her face.

"My professor said my science project on structural engineering was the best in the whole sixth grade! He wants to submit it to the district competition!"

Pride swells in my chest. "Mariah, that's incredible! Your dad is going to be so proud."

"He's going to make me explain every single calculation again, isn't he?" She grins, completely unfazed by the prospect.

"Probably. You know how he is about plans and details."

She rolls her eyes. "He gets it from Uncle Phoenix. They spent two hours last week planning the club's charity motorcycle ride."

"Planning prevents problems," I quote in Dean's voice, and Mariah laughs.

The door chimes again and this time it's Dean himself, still wearing his Iron Phoenix cut, looking exactly like he did six years ago except for the few gray hairs at his temples that he insists make him look distinguished.

"Are my girls talking about me?" he asks, crossing the office to kiss me hello, a real kiss, the kind that still makes my stomach flip after six years together.

"Always," I tell him against his mouth.

He settles into the chair across from my desk, watching Mariah pull out homework with the same attention he gives everything. "Good day?"