Chapter 18 Derek
T he sun’s first rays find me still half-asleep, curled around Annabelle in the RV bunk. Her hair fans across my chest like spun gold, and for a moment, everything else—the lawsuits, Mike Bishop’s threats, the relentless fear—just…disappears.
But the day waits for no one, and a couple of hours later, we’re back in motion.
We haul the pie crates out to the truck together, her hand brushing mine as we load up Misty’s empty stand.
By the time we reach the square, the tents are alive with laughter and the scent of kettle corn.
Misty waves us over from her booth, beckoning for a restock.
Annabelle hands her the last of the apple–maple pies with a grin that lights up the whole damn street.
The sky is a brilliant blue—suspiciously brilliant, judging by the weather app—and everyone’s talking about the chances of an evening storm. I only half-listen. Rick’s car won’t run tonight, and I know exactly why. That’s satisfaction enough.
Annabelle slips away for water, braid swinging like a metronome as she weaves between the booths. I hesitate—a single breath—then go after her.
And that’s when I see her?—
Cornered. Behind the booth near the portable generators.
Mike fucking Bishop has his hands on her. And I’m too far away.
He’s gripping her arm. Her body’s stiff, spine straight like she’s bracing for impact. She twists, trying to get free, but he leans in, lips moving fast and low. I see the flinch in her shoulders. See her hand pull back?—
Crack.
The slap echoes like a firecracker.
His head snaps sideways.
And I run.
I barely register the faces—just the flash of kids in cowboy hats and string lights buzzing overhead as I shove through the crowd. But Mike bolts before I can reach him, slipping through the tents like the cockroach he is.
“Coward!” I roar, lunging?—
But Annabelle grabs my arm.
“Derek—don’t. Not here.”
She’s shaking. Eyes wide. Breath shallow.
I stop. Only because she’s in front of me.
I steady her with my hands, gentle but firm. “Did he hurt you?”
“No. No, I’m okay.”
But she’s not.
And neither am I.
The mic screeches, its feedback sharp enough to pierce bone. Then comes the voice I hate more than my own doubt. I turn slowly, gut twisting.
Mike’s on stage with microphone in hand like he’s God’s own stand-up comic. But nobody’s laughing.
“I’m looking for someone,” he booms. “Skylar Bishop. You know her, right? The bitch who sold the land that was supposed to be mine? My father’s land.”
He paces like a preacher drunk on his own spit.
“If you’re hiding Skylar, you’ve got twenty-four hours to come clean.”
My hands curl into fists.
Then he looks at Annabelle, and everything tilts sideways.
“And Belle?” he purrs, like her name tastes good on his tongue. “Sweet, broken Belle. You’ve got twenty-four hours too, my precious. Because if you don’t give me what I want, I’ll tell this whole town exactly what you are.”
He leans into the mic like he’s about to sing a lullaby made of venom.
“You think your pies and your pretty little face make you respectable again? You’re nothing but a whore who spreads her legs for anyone who pretends to care.”
Gasps ripple.
Mothers cover children’s ears.
Dads square their shoulders.
And Annabelle?—
She flinches beside me like he just slapped her in front of the whole fucking town.
And I snap.
I charge forward, but Blake’s there, planting both hands on my chest like a wall made of muscle and memory.
“Dad— no. ”
“I’m gonna kill him,” I snarl, fighting against his grip.
My father flanks my other side, holding firm. “You do this now, you lose everything. Let him hang himself with his own rope.”
Mike smirks from the stage, like he knows I can’t get to him yet. Like he wants me to snap.
Volunteers start moving. Older men from town climb the stairs, grabbing Mike by the arms and dragging him down. But not before he spits one last venom-laced sentence into the mic.
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Belle.”
The speakers screech one last time as someone yanks the cord.
The mic thuds to the floor.
My jaw tightens, and my chest seizes with fury. Every breath tastes like smoke.
My father’s grip loosens after Mike leaves. Maybe it’s better this way. I don’t want the whole town to witness a murder.
I pull Blake in, ruffle his hair like he’s still twelve. “Thanks, kid. As much as I don’t want to admit it, that was the right call.”
He’s taller now. Broader. Steadier than I was at his age. But in this moment—right here, holding me back from ruining my life—he’s still the boy who once asked if love could fix everything.
I don’t say it out loud, but the answer burns in my chest like gospel: Yeah, kid. It can. But you’ve gotta fight like hell for it.
The square is silent, except for Annabelle’s breathing, shallow and ragged beside me.
She’s trembling.
I wrap my arms around her and pull her close, holding her like I’m the only shield she’s got left.
“We’re pressing charges,” I murmur into her hair. “I swear to God, Annabelle, I won’t let him survive this.”
Lena moves in with the kind of quiet ferocity only mothers have, wrapping an arm around Annabelle’s shoulders.
Walter’s voice is low but firm. “You’re coming with us tonight. Both of you.”
I start to argue, because pride is a disease, but Mom doesn’t even look at me when she says, “You’re not going out there alone. Not while he’s breathing the same air.”
I nod once.
The family closes in around us like armor. And just when I think we’ve survived the worst?—
The sirens come.
One sharp wail. Then another. Cutting through the quiet like blades.
Annabelle freezes.
So do I.
At first, everyone assumes it’s part of the festivities. A firetruck giving kids a thrill. Maybe a parade thing.
Instead of the firetrucks, two cruisers roll into the square. And it’s not Simon, or our township.
Outsiders.
The shift in the air is immediate. Tight. Electric.
And there they are.
Mike and Rick Bishop. Two smug, polished fuckers swaggering like they just won the goddamn lottery. Two officers from a neighboring county flank them like prom dates.
I step in front of Annabelle, instinct on autopilot.
Eric and Emma aren’t here. Blake’s by the cider booth.
Mike holds up a manila folder like it’s a weapon, the kind of paper sword cowards swing when they can’t win with their fists.
“There’s something everyone should hear before yesterday’s race is official!” he shouts.
Sheriff Simon steps out of the shadows, jaw clenched tight. Blake’s right behind him, eyes sharp, scanning the incoming threat like a soldier.
“Derek Fields. Annabelle Waters,” one officer says. “Please step forward. We’ve been asked to hold you until the sheriff from San Jacinto County arrives tomorrow morning.”
“Hold us?” Annabelle’s voice cuts sharp, incredulous. “What the hell does that mean?”
One of the officers steps toward her. “We have reason to believe you submitted forged legal documents to the State of California.”
The world tilts.
My lungs forget how to work.
Annabelle’s hand clamps around mine, tight and trembling.
Mike raises the folder like he’s just played the ace of spades. “It’s a felony. Oh, and he tampered with my race vehicle. And my brother’s. I have him on tape. Clear as day. He shouldn’t even be allowed to compete.”
“No,” I snap. “You’ve got no jurisdiction here. You don’t even?—”
“Actually,” the taller cop says, stepping forward, “we do. Your actions impacted a cross-state licensing agreement. Charges were filed an hour ago. And these gentlemen—” he jerks his chin toward the brothers “—have filed a civil claim as well.”
Annabelle goes pale. Her lips move, but no sound comes out.
I grab her hand. “Hey. Don’t say anything. We’ll call someone. I’ll fix this.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
And that cuts deeper than anything Mike Bishop could ever say.
Sheriff Simon steps in, voice tight as a drum.
“Hold on. If anyone’s got jurisdiction in Lords Valley, it’s me.
And according to our constitution, and last time I checked, the state’s and the country’s, these two are innocent until proven guilty.
They’ll spend the night in my jail, and legal counsel can handle the rest in the morning. ”
I look at him like he just handed us oxygen. A second chance. A goddamn miracle.
The cuffs are cold when they snap around my wrists, but at least I’m not being dragged into Bishop’s town like some pawn on his revenge tour.
I hear the second set click shut on Annabelle.
She doesn’t flinch. But her fingers are still in mine, and they don’t let go.
We’re marched through the stunned crowd toward the cruiser, the new one I remodeled last fall. Because irony’s a bitch.
Rain starts just as Sheriff Simon shuts the door behind us, sealing us into the backseat. Lightning flashes. Thunder cracks overhead.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t give a damn about the consequences—because she’s still beside me.
Even in the back of a fucking cruiser I could strip to the frame in under ten minutes.
But I’d never run.
Not without her.
The station comes into view, two hundred yards down Main Street. Simon pulls in, parks close to the rear entrance, and opens our door.
Rain lashes, soaking us as he hurries us inside. Lightning flashes again, casting jagged shadows across the cement walls.
Thunder rolls through the structure like a war drum.
Annabelle’s fingers tighten in mine, nails digging in with every distant crack.
Simon leads us toward the cells at the back of the station.
He pauses outside the bars.
“Normally, I’d offer coffee and small talk… but we probably shouldn’t be chatting.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “Thanks for buying us some time.”
“Town’s behind you two. Whatever happens, you’re not alone.”
“Thank you,” Annabelle whispers, voice low.
The thunder answers for her.
Then, the bastard locks us in two separate cells.
“Are you serious?” I growl. “Come on, Simon. You’ve known us since we were in diapers. You really gonna make me sleep in a separate cell from my wife?”