Page 127 of Dirty Mechanic

“Race officials posted the list,” she tells Derek. “You’re disqualified this year.”

He nods, wrapping an arm around me. “Good. I’ve got more important things to win.”

Caroline lingers outside the window, legal pad open, lips moving as she scribbles—already preparing for battle. She hasn’t stopped fighting for us. Not for a second.

I slip behind the counter, pull the blossom from my pocket, and tuck Tommy’s branch into a vase on the windowsill.

“Home,” I whisper.

Derek rests his forehead against mine, the blooming apple branch between us.

“When Blake wakes,” he whispers, “I’ll run the fall race. For him. For us. And this time, I won’t just win. I’ll cross that finish line with my whole damn heart.”

And I believe him.

The courtroom smells like lemon polish and quiet bullshit. Dust floats in the sunlight like it’s got secrets to tell, and every creak of the benches sounds like judgment. I sit cuff-free, but the memory of that metal still burns into my wrist like it left a brand.

Annabelle sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch. She doesn’t say anything, and she doesn’t need to. Our fingers are laced beneath the table, and every time she squeezes, I squeeze back. It’s a silent promise—we made it off that rooftop. Even if the state doesn’t recognize our vows yet, I do. Every damn word.

Behind us, Caroline murmurs to Cash Wagner—our legal nuke from New York, handpicked by Emma and worth every silver dollar she pulled to bring him here. Cash looks like a man who’s never lost a fight. Caroline, belly first and fire second, looks like she hasn’t slept in days but still wouldn’t hesitate to eat a prosecutor alive.

Annabelle’s marriage to Mike is nearly annulled—Cash filed under duress and trauma. One judge’s signature and she’ll finally be free to love me without that bastard’s name still stuck to hers like rot.

Misty’s behind us in the gallery, small and pale in a wheelchair that looks too big for her now. She won’t meet my eyes. Keeps wringing a tissue like she’s trying to twist the pain out of her fingers. There’s something about her that feels distant, like part of her already left town.

“She needs to leave town,” Emma whispers behind me.

“It’s the only way to keep her safe,” Caroline replies. “We’ll arrange a safe house. Somewhere Rick won’t think to look.”

Misty doesn’t say a word, but her grip on the chair tightens until her knuckles go white.

Then the bailiff calls court to order. Judge Holloway enters, robes sweeping like a storm cloud. The air shifts. Cameras snap behind us, and I feel Annabelle tense beside me.

The prosecutor stands. Smug little man with a voice that thinks it owns the damn room.

“Your Honor,” he begins, “we’re here today regarding the charges against Annabelle Waters. The state believes Ms. Waters is responsible for the murder of John Huntz and, potentially, his son, Michael Bishop. We request the court deny any further bail, as we possess critical evidence of intent, motive, and opportunity. Specifically, ripped pages from Annabelle Waters’ own journal contain what we consider to be a written confession, clearly outlining her actions and state of mind.”

A hush settles over the courtroom like fog. Heavy. Watching.

I keep my breathing steady even as my pulse starts hammering. My jaw locks, but I glance at Annabelle. Her hands are trembling in her lap. She looks over.

I meet her eyes. Hold. Squeeze her fingers.

We’ve got this.

Cash rises like a storm front in a tailored Armani suit. Calm. Collected. Dangerous.

“Your Honor,” he begins, “the ripped pages from Annabelle Waters’ journal have been presented out of context—literally torn from their spine and distorted from the truth. The prosecution hasn’t established a chain of custody or authenticated the handwriting within any cohesive narrative. We’re not even sure when the entries were written, or if they were edited.”

He starts pacing. Slow and deliberate, like every step is part of the argument.

“Furthermore, no forensic evidence ties my client to a murder weapon. Riverbed forensics show no indication that John Huntz’s fall off that bridge was caused by a weapon, and the medical examiner’s report confirms we cannot establish if Huntz drowned or bled out, given the body’s delayed recovery.”

He stops in front of the jury box and plants his stance like a man who’s carved out victories in rooms like this a hundred times.

“This was not premeditated. This was a woman fighting to survive a man who had terrorized her since kidnapping her at eleven. The only calculated plan here belonged to the man who framed her for his father’s death. A man who died chasing ghosts.”

The silence afterward feels like a held breath—too full to swallow.