Page 129 of Dirty Mechanic

Misty doesn’t respond. Just stares straight ahead, shoulders drawn like a wire.

I turn back to Caroline. “And the forged divorce papers?”

She exhales through her nose. “Doesn’t matter. We filed to vacate the Bishop marriage under duress. The court agrees there was no valid consent. It’ll be officially annulled by Friday.”

Something tight uncoils in my chest.

“So Annabelle and I…”

Caroline finally smiles. “Are free to get married. This time, with actual paperwork.”

I nod, throat thick. Thank God.

I shuffle toward Misty and ease down beside her, one arm slipping around her shoulders.

“You okay?” I ask.

She exhales—quiet, but final. “Once you guys are cleared, I’m leaving as soon as they let me. I can’t stay here. Not with Rick still out there—” Her voice cracks, and for a second, I see the girl I used to carry on my shoulders at the fair, not the broken woman barely holding herself together now.

I press my forehead gently against hers. “You saved Blake. You saved us. You belong here.”

Her shoulders lift in a shrug so small it almost doesn’t register—until I catch her bottom lip trembling. Then she locks it down, hard. “Rick will be looking for me. He told me he’ll never stop. Better he chases shadows than puts you both at risk.”

There’s a knot in my throat, sharp as steel. “We’ll stay in touch.”

She pulls back, and for the first time all morning, her eyes are steady. “Promise me you’ll keep living your life. For Blake.”

I nod. “Of course.”

When court resumes, the blow comes soft—but it still knocks the breath out of me.

“The charge of murder in the death of John Huntz is hereby dismissed, due to insufficient evidence. Michael Bishop’s death remains under review, but no charges are currently filed. All charges against Annabelle Waters and Derek Fields are hereby dismissed.” The judge’s gavel falls with a finality I didn’t realize I’d been holding out for. “This court finds no cause for detainment. You’re free to go.”

A sob tears loose from Misty.

And I break.

I don’t mean to. I’ve been holding it all in—every fist-clenched second of it. But the relief hits like a punch to the ribs, and before I can stop myself, I turn to Annabelle and lift her off the floor, burying my face in her shoulder. She smells like salt and freedom.

“Does this mean—?” she breathes against my ear.

“It means we get to do this right,” I say. My voice shakes, but I don’t care. Not now.

Tears sting my eyes, but we don’t linger. There’s no fist pumps. No celebrations. Just a quiet kind of peace settling over us, like maybe—just maybe—we get to start again.

We are not the same people who walked into this room. We’re scraped raw, bruised beneath the surface, but freer than we’ve ever been. Not entirely. Not yet. But enough.

And enough is everything.

I used to think freedom meant keeping everyone out. Holding the weight alone. But watching Annabelle now—her head resting lightly against my shoulder, her fingers gripping mine like she’s still not convinced it’s real—I know better.

Freedom isn’t escape. It’s this. It’s her. It’s home. And I will choose both—again and again.

Caroline snaps her briefcase closed and murmurs something to Cash. Emma lets out a squeal that makes the entire row of gallery benches flinch. Misty wheels herself forward, eyes rimmed in red, expression bare and bruised. She doesn’t speak, but I see it—the moment she accepts that she made it out alive.

Out in the hall, the light catches on wet tile and blurred reflections. Caroline falls into step beside us. “Emma’s car is out front. She insisted. Again. You know Emma.”

Of course I do.