Page 43 of Dirty Mechanic

All these months, I thought she’d left because she stopped loving me. But she was kidnapped again.

“I’ve got you,” I murmur, breathing her in like I’ve been holding my breath for years. “He’s never getting near you again.”

My voice is steady, but my grip tightens at her waist. I can’t pretend to be calm when every part of me is wired to fight. I tilt her chin up, gently but firmly, until she meets my eyes.

“But you need to let me help.”

Her lashes are wet. She nods, slowly and silently.

But nods are just promises. Trust is what comes after you keep them.

And she’s already paid in full.

“He’s looking for Skylar Bishop,” she whispers. “He knows Huntz left land to his daughter. He thinks if he finds her, he can claim what’s his. He said if I don’t tell him who she is, he’ll start asking around. Pay someone to give her up.”

Her voice breaks.

“Misty’s not safe.”

Her shoulders sag, like holding that secret cost her more than she expected.

Ice slides down my spine.

I hesitate.

The words stick, heavy and unwelcome.

But this is the moment—no more secrets, no more waiting. We’re finally moving forward, one cracked step at a time.

“Might as well go all in,” I say, quieter now.

“I picked up the mail in town today. Court letter came in. They want me to testify in Huntz’s case. It’s being reopened.”

Her body stiffens.

“I think Mike’s behind it,” I continue. “Trying to dig. Build a case. If either of us says the wrong thing…” I swallow, the words bitter on my tongue. “We both go down.”

She presses her hands together until her knuckles blanch.

“They’re reopening it?” she whispers. “Does that mean?—”

“It means someone is stirring the ashes,” I say. “And if they drag us both into a courtroom, it won’t be a coincidence for long.”

Annabelle’s face drains of color like someone flipped a switch.

“I need a minute,” she says. And before I can stop her, before I can even touch her, she rises to her feet and slips out the back door. Late afternoon sun folds around her, but I let her go.

A stab pierces through my chest. Because I should be fixing this. Instead, I’m standing here like a damn spectator, fists full of air, watching the woman I love walk barefoot into a prison she had me build to feel safe.

She disappears into the greenhouse like she’s trying not to exist.

A light bulb glints off the roof, fractured light cutting through the walls like stained glass in a chapel.

And I hate that this is her sanctuary.

That her peace lives in a place with walls she can lock from the inside.

I grab a dish towel, wiping my hands, even though they’re clean. Then reach for the ragged counter rag and swipe crumbs into my palm, just to do something—anything.