Page 108 of Dirty Mechanic

Caroline’s words echo in my head—get the evidence together. The gun. The journal.

I can’t breathe easily until I know both are in my hands. If Mike finds them, it’s over. If the authorities find them without context, it’s a loaded weapon and a pile of accusations. But if I bring them forward, with my truth, we still have a chance to control the narrative before it swallows us.

I glance at Derek. He’s laughing at something Blake said, head tipped back, eyes soft in a way I don’t see nearly often enough. But there’s a heaviness beneath it—a quiet sag in his shoulders, a slowness in the way his smile lingers like it’s costing him energy to hold onto it.

The kind of tired that doesn’t sleep off easy.

An hour later, he’s asleep beside me, out cold in minutes.

But me? I can’t stop thinking.

So I press a kiss to his cheek and slip out of bed while he’s still snoring.

For once, I’m not running. I’m choosing.

Him. This place. This love.

Once the journal’s destroyed and the gun’s where it can’t hurt us anymore, maybe I’ll finally be free.

My feet make no sound on the stairs. I wrap myself in Derek’s oversized flannel, the sleeves swallowing my hands, and pad into the mudroom to pull on boots. The rain has stopped, but the world outside is still soaked, and the air is thick with that post-storm quiet that always feels like a held breath. The moon hangs sharp and bright above the trees, and two fields down, the RV waits near the edge of Derek’s garden.

I cross the field behind the house. Every crunch of gravel sounds like a gunshot. Fear coils low in my spine, thrumming in my ribs with each step.

Derek’s porch light casts a dim glow over the front step as I slip through the screen door, closing it softly behind me to check on the dogs, even though I know Derek already has. Rain returns, soft at first, then steady—falling in rhythmic sheets that blur the edges of the night.

They’re curled up near the wood stove, tails thumping lazily when I approach.

“Hey, babies,” I whisper. “Just a quick check-in, okay?”

I pour fresh kibble into their bowls, refill the water, heart aching as their noses nuzzle my hands.

“You’re safer in here,” I murmur, and mean it.

Outside, the storm surges again. Wind claws at the trees. My boots squelch through the mud as I cross the garden. I reach the RV, fumbling with the lock, my rain-slick fingers shaking. The door creaks open. The smell of old fabric and something faintly like us greets me. Soap, dust, and the kind of memory that never quite leaves your skin.

I step inside, closing the door gently behind me. My heart pounds like it’s trying to break free from my chest. The faint glow through the fogged windows slices the darkness into ribbons, turning everything inside into ghost shapes: the cluttered counter, the ripped bench cushion, the cracked mugs in the tiny kitchenette.

I drop to my knees, fingers scrambling with the latch under the bench.

Come on, come on.

The compartment creaks open. There it is. My small, dangerous stash. The gun, wrapped in a towel. The battered black journal, its corners frayed. My breath catches. My hands shake.

I tell myself I’m being paranoid. Just get the journal and go. One more minute and I’ll be back in his arms. I sit on the edge of the bench, the gun heavy in one palm, the journal in the other. My conviction in the right hand. My acquittal in my left.

I zip the journal into my coat. I check the gun—loaded, safety on—then notice my bootlace has come undone. I set the gun on the back shelf and crouch to fix it.

And that’s when I hear footsteps.

Soft. Deliberate.

Someone’s outside.

I freeze.

The rain masks most sounds, but this? It wasn’t wind. Not an animal. It was someone.

I move fast, slipping into the RV’s tiny bathroom. A damp cubicle with a toilet, shower, and sink squeezed into one narrow stall. I shut the door and crouch low, breath shallow in my throat.