Chapter 22 Derek
A nnabelle and Blake stand in the middle of the skiff, each of them with a sack of sand tied to the rope coiling their feet.
My pulse splinters.
Mike steps toward the edge of the boat, shouting over the water. “I want answers! Why did my father leave his land to Skylar Bishop?! Where is that bitch hiding?!”
I freeze. “Misty,” I whisper, barely audible. “Stay quiet.” Then louder: “Let them go, Mike!”
He doesn’t. He laughs, high and cracked, and grabs the ropes.
Misty’s hand shoots out. She yanks the pistol from my belt in one fluid move, drops to one knee, and fires.
The shot echoes like a cannon.
Mike takes the hit and stumbles backward, slamming into the engine housing. The outboard sputters, snarls, then the boat jerks hard sideways, spinning with the current. He loses his footing, slips—and goes over the side.
Gone.
The deck tilts violently and ropes snap taut, the bow yawing. Then, they’re airborne. Bodies lift from the deck like rag dolls caught in a windstorm, arching through the air.
Time fractures.
Annabelle screams—then silence. Water slaps like a body blow.
Blake twists midair, arms outstretched.
“Get Annabelle!” he yells, the wind shredding the words.
Then the river swallows him whole. The splash is deafening—too big. Too final.
I freeze just long enough to burn the image into memory: ropes trailing like tentacles in the wake, sandbags sinking fast like anchors dragging bodies down.
I don't see Mike anywhere. He hasn’t surfaced, but it doesn’t matter. I dive.
The river slams into me with ice-edged violence.
My lungs seize, my scalp tightens, panic clawing at my ribs.
I kick hard, blinking against silt and shadow, heart hammering.
Shapes blur. River weeds wrap around my arms like restraints.
Something brushes my leg—a limb, hair, fabric?
Panic surges as I reach blindly, feeling rather than seeing. My fingers snag fabric, then her arm.
Annabelle.
Her hair drifts like seaweed, arms flailing helplessly, her white shirt billowing like a ghost as the sandbag tied at her ankles drags her deeper. I reach desperately for the rope, fingers fumbling underwater with the knot. It slips—won’t loosen—won’t give?—
She claws at my shirt. Trusting me and drowning.
I wrench at the rope until it slips loose. Her legs snap upward, and I push up at her elbow, clawing toward the light. Toward air. Toward anything but this hell.
We break the surface in a choking burst, Annabelle gasping and coughing violently, sobbing as she spits water.
I grip her waist and turn us toward shore just as Misty’s scream tears through the air, followed by the sharp crack of a gunshot.
A rough, familiar voice echoes from the shore—Rick.
I twist toward the dock, my vision blurred by rain and river, and see Misty locked in a fierce struggle with a man twice her size, her legs tangled and her braid whipping across her face.
She’s got the gun and he’s snarling something I can’t hear. She kicks his shin and he stumbles. Lightning strikes close. She lifts the rifle, points it at Rick, says something, and pulls the trigger.
Crack.
Rick jerks back, clutches his side, stumbles, and vanishes into the trees.
Misty just stands there.
Frozen.
Then she looks down at the gun like it’s a live wire and hurls it into the river. It arcs into the darkness, and disappears with a final splash. Misty collapses onto the ground.
No—no no no ? —
I can’t swim fast enough.
My arms are cinder blocks. My legs won’t kick right. And my son’s still underwater.
Annabelle slips from my grip, crawling up the riverbank on hands and knees, coughing water.
But I don’t stop. I reach the shallows, surge forward, slip in the mud and weeds, and fall at Misty’s side.
She’s curled tightly, arms around her belly, Blake’s hoodie soaked with blood.
I blink. That’s Blake’s hoodie.
Blake!
“I need to get Blake! Annabelle!” I scream out.
“He shot me,” Misty chokes. “He shot my baby.”
Her eyes flutter and roll back.
Annabelle’s voice cuts through from behind me: “I’ve got her! Go get Blake!”
I don’t hesitate. I dive.
This time, the cold punches me in the chest like a steel fist. Every breath is a war. Every kick, a losing fight against the current pulling me downstream.
I can’t see him.
Can’t see Blake.
But I know he’s out here. With fifty pounds of sand lashed to his feet.
I force my eyes open underwater. Murky shadows. Silt and leaves swirl like ghosts. My lungs scream. I scan in frantic jerks—left, right—until?—
There. A pale flash of fingers, reaching for nothing.
I grab him. He’s heavy. Too heavy. Dead weight.
His eyes are shut, lips parted, the rope cinched tightly around his ankles like a noose. I hook my arm around his chest and kick.
Hard. Up. Toward the light. Toward the surface. My lungs burn. The roar in my ears rings louder than the river.
We break through—but he doesn’t cough. Doesn’t breathe.
“Blake! Don’t you fucking dare!” I shout, hauling him toward shore with everything I’ve got.
My arms feel like they’re being ripped from their sockets.
His head lolls. Limp. Silent.
“No—no—nonono—” I drag him up the bank and drop to my knees. “Annabelle!” I bark.
She’s by Misty’s side, pained and drenched.
“Help me! He’s not breathing.”
She scrambles over and drops beside me. No hesitation.
No words. She quickly rolls him onto his side, striking his back firmly to clear any water from his airway.
Only then does she ease him flat again and begins compressions.
Her hands move with practiced calm, but her eyes—God, her eyes—they’re glass-sharp and terrified. She counts out loud.
When she stops, I tilt his chin up and blow in two breaths.
Nothing. Water leaks from his mouth. We roll him on his side again and pound his back. Then I take over.
“He’s not?—”
“He will live,” I growl, slamming down on his chest harder. “He’s not fucking dying today.”
We keep going. Two more rounds.
My arms ache, but I don’t stop. This is my son. My responsibility. The one thing I swore to keep safe.
And here I am—breathing life into lungs that shouldn’t be still, because I couldn’t stop the Bishops.
“Come on,” I whisper. “Come back to me, Blake.”
He coughs a ragged, wet gasp that sprays river water across my chest.
“Blake!”
Relief floods my chest, stealing my breath before I can catch it.
“Jesus Christ.” I pull him into my lap. “Don’t ever do that again.”
Annabelle sobs beside me, collapsing onto the grass. “He’s okay?”
“Breathing,” I rasp. “He’s breathing.”
She crawls forward, presses a kiss to his muddy forehead.
Blake coughs again. Then croaks, “That was the worst pig bath ever.”
I laugh. Half hysterical, because Misty’s injured, and her face is losing color by the second. My throat clamps.
Annabelle’s already crawling toward her.
Misty’s slumped against a tree. Her jeans are soaked through, and blood’s pooling under her thighs. That’s too much blood. Her hands clutch her belly. Her hoodie’s been hiked up, like she tried to check herself and couldn’t.
I stumble toward her, slipping in the mud.
“Misty. Talk to me. Where’s the wound?”
She tries to sit, but fails.
“Rick shot me,” she breathes. “I think—” Her voice cracks. “I think I lost the baby.”
“No,” I whisper. “No, you didn’t. You’re gonna be fine. It’s just a graze, okay?”
But I know it’s not just a graze. She’s gone white. Bloodless. And the blood pooling around her belly’s too dark. Too fast.
I strip off my flannel and press it hard to her abdomen.
She whimpers and grabs my arm. “Derek—if something happens?—”
“Nothing’s happening,” I snap. “You’re not dying, and Blake’s not drowning, and fucking Rick Bishop’s not getting away with this.”
I glance at Blake. He’s lying on his side now, barely conscious.
I grab my phone. No bars. Of course.
I tear off my undershirt and fold it over Misty’s stomach to try to slow the bleeding.
She’s panting, eyes darting, like she’s fighting not to slip under. “I shot them,” she says. “I shot Mike and Rick.”
“I didn’t mean to kill him,” she gasps, her voice raw and shaking. “I swear, I was just trying to scare him. It was supposed to be a warning shot.”
Annabelle’s beside her, holding Misty’s hand and pressing a bloody t-shirt to her belly. “I know. We’ll handle it. Just breathe.”
Her lip trembles. “I didn’t even aim. I just pulled the trigger.”
“It’s okay,” Annabelle says. “You're safe now. We’ve got you.”
Annabelle’s beside her, holding Misty’s hand with trembling fingers.
“Should I run up the road for help?” Annabelle asks.
I turn toward them. “No. We need to move her. Too much blood loss here.”
“We can’t carry both her and Blake.”
My jaw ticks. “Then I’ll do it.” I stand, lifting Misty in my arms.
She cries out but doesn’t fight. Her hands knot into my shoulder like she’s hanging on for dear life. Because she is.
“You help Blake,” I tell Annabelle.
She nods and helps him up, looping his arm over her shoulder. He’s groggy and swaying, but alive.
The walk back feels endless. The storm breaks open above us, like the sky can’t hold its grief anymore. Rain lashes sideways, soaking us again, washing away blood and mud and footprints.
We’re closer to Eric and Emma’s than the house, so we go there.
By the time we hit their porch, my legs are shaking. My knees buckle. Eric catches Misty in his arms and Emma, coat unzipped and eyes wide, runs down to help Annabelle and Blake. “What the hell happened?”
“Rick,” I rasp. “Mike’s brother. He shot Misty.” I barely get the rest out. “Mike tied up Annabelle and Blake. Took them out on the river. They went under. Blake almost?—”
I stop. Can’t say it, and Emma doesn’t wait for the rest. She flings the door open, barking orders into her phone.
“Lay her on the couch,” she says. “Towels. Now.”
Annabelle’s already moving. She runs for the linen closet.
Blake collapses into a kitchen chair like a rag doll. I kneel beside Misty, pressing fresh towels to the wound. She moans softly. Her lashes flutter.
“Stay awake,” I tell her. “You hear me? You still haven’t named your damn puppy.”
She cracks one eye. “Pickles.”
I blink. “Pickles?”
“Or... Button.”
“Jesus, you’re not allowed to name pets while you’re bleeding out.”
A flicker of a smile. Then she gasps, her body curling inward like it’s folding around the pain.
Blood streams down her leg. Too fast. Too much.
“Where the fuck is that ambulance?” I shout.
Emma’s at the window, phone pressed to her ear.
“Ten minutes,” she snaps. “Stay with her. I’ve got gauze in the car.”
She bolts.
I look at Annabelle. She’s kneeling beside Blake, face streaked with tears, hands shaking.
He’s on the floor now, unconscious, and she’s checking his pulse.
“What happened?” I ask, barely holding it together.
“I don’t know,” she says. “He just collapsed. It might be secondary drowning. We need the hospital.”
I nod. “You okay?”
She meets my eyes.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be okay again.”
I nod again. Fair.
But I can’t fall apart. Not yet.
Not while Misty’s still bleeding. Not while Blake’s unconscious. Not while Rick is out there.
My fists curl tightly. This night has taken too much.
Blake’s breath. Misty’s blood. Annabelle’s fragile peace.
And one brutal truth slams into my chest like a punch I didn’t see coming?—
I can’t lose them.
Not now. Not ever.
But the edges of my vision start to dim, black creeping in like spilled ink. My legs give a warning tremble. Pain pulses behind my eyes—deep and insistent. I try to stand, to move, to fight it off?—
But my body isn’t listening anymore.
I sink to my knees. The world tilts. A voice—Annabelle’s?—calls my name. But it’s too far away.
And then everything goes dark.