Page 38 of Dirty Mechanic

The country road stretches ahead, lined with oaks that whisper secrets to the breeze. Emma’s house is fifteen-minutes behind me—past the bridge, past the trees, past the hum of cicadas.

Last light pools across the gravel as I tighten my grip on my purse, heart ticking loud in my chest. It would be impossible to walk safely in San Francisco at this hour.

I turn the bend and see him.

Thirty feet away Mike slouches against a tree, every inch the villain he’s always been.

My lungs lock.

Derek’s porch—his safety—is still a world away.

He straightens, shoulders rolling back.

“Hello, Belle.”

He starts walking—slow, steady, like he has all the time in the world.

The space between us shrinks with every step.

I glance over my shoulder. No one. Just the road and the trees and my pulse roaring in my ears.

My body locks up.

It’s like I’ve slipped back in time?—

To the windowless apartment.

To the sound of bolts sliding into place.

To the way he said my name right before everything went dark.

I can’t breathe. Can’t move.

I’m frozen, not by fear—but by memory.

“You ran away,” he says, closing in. “But I found you. Like a good husband does.”

I force a breath. Force my legs to respond.

One shaky step back.

“Get the fuck away from me.”

He wipes at the blood crusted in his mustache, his crooked nose visibly broken.

“Oh, I will,” he says, stepping closer, amber eyes gleaming. “As soon as you tell me where Skylar Bishop is.”

“I don’t know?—”

“Don’t lie.” He spits the words, voice thick with whiskey.

“You’ve got three days, wifey. I’ll race, collect my winnings, then claim my father’s land. Refuse to talk? Fine. I’ve got a plan B. See how fast your proud little town starts yapping about Skylar Bishop once I wave enough cash around and you’re rotting in jail.”

His hand snaps up, fingers clamping around my throat.

The world tilts. Pain blooms in my windpipe.

I drop my purse and claw at his wrist, desperate to break his grip.