Chapter 24 Derek #2
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.
Rain taps the awning above the courthouse entrance.
The drizzle is soft, steady, almost cleansing.
Eric slipped out early to pull the van around.
When we get outside, he’s already standing by the open passenger door, helping Misty into the seat like she’s made of glass.
She doesn’t fight him. Doesn’t speak. Just lets him buckle her in and fold the blanket over her lap.
I help Annabelle into the back and slide in beside her. She’s quiet—like she’s afraid to breathe too deeply and lose the moment. I fasten her seatbelt before I even think about it. Muscle memory. Love turned automatic.
Up front, Emma turns the key, pulls away from the courthouse and heads toward the hospital.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re walking down the hall, hand in hand. Blake’s room is quiet except for the slow, steady rhythm of the machines. My parents rise from the corner chairs when we enter, tired but hopeful.
Blake’s chest rises and falls, mechanical and even. He looks peaceful. Too peaceful.
I nod at the resident standing by the monitors. “When will he wake up?”
The doctor glances at the readout. “It’s impossible to say. He has anoxic encephalopathy. His brain’s healing, but only he can decide when he’s done.”
I know what that means. No promises. No timelines. Just time. And hope.
I squeeze Annabelle’s shoulder, then crouch beside the bed. My son’s hair is damp with sweat. I brush it back gently.
“We’re free,” I whisper, my voice cracking on the word. “You hear that, son? We’re free. But I’ll never be whole without you.”
I swallow hard.
“So don’t you dare quit now. We need you home.”
I curl my fingers around his hand—cool, limp, too still. These are the same hands that rebuilt engines and hoisted Misty out of the barn when she sprained her ankle. The same hands that held Annabelle like she was breakable, even when she wasn’t.
I need them to move.
I need him to move.
But even as I sit there begging… I still believe.
Sometime later, I slide into the back seat of Emma’s van, soaked to the bone and still wearing the same damn sweatshirt I nearly drowned in. The hospital glows behind us, fluorescent and cold—too bright, too sterile. A place that hums with machines and smells like bleach and endings.
They did their best. Good people, kind voices. But that place swallows hope and spits out silence. Leaving Blake behind, even temporarily, feels like I’m cutting off a part of myself and telling it to wait. But we had to go.
Rain scatters against the windshield, soft and steady, blurring the road into red tail lights and sleepy storefronts. I climb in beside Annabelle and quietly buckle her seatbelt, fingers brushing hers like an apology for all the times I couldn’t protect her.
Emma catches my eye in the mirror. “Where to?”
I look at Annabelle. Her eyes meet mine—tired, wide, full of something that looks a hell of a lot like hope. I don’t hesitate.
“The orchard.”
Emma turns the key. The engine hums and we drive into the rain.
The town is hushed, like it’s holding its breath. We roll past shuttered shops and dark windows until the hill crests and the orchard comes into view—rows of apple trees standing like sentries in the mist.
Emma eases off the road, gravel crackling beneath the tires. When we stop, I’m already out of the car, moving fast around to open Annabelle’s door. She steps out slow, careful, like the ground might vanish if she moves too quickly. I steady her with one hand at the small of her back.
We walk in silence, the scent of damp leaves and fresh earth curling around us like a promise. At the base of our young apple tree, I stop.
The wooden marker I carved is still there. D + A, etched the morning after our wedding. I touch it once, then turn to face her.
“I promised you a real wedding,” I say, voice rough but steady. “No loopholes. No more waiting.”
I pull the velvet box from my jacket pocket and drop to one knee—soaking wet, exhausted, completely sure.
“Annabelle Waters, will you marry me? Again.”
She lifts a hand to her mouth. Her eyes shimmer.
“Yes,” she whispers. “A thousand times yes.”
I slip the ring onto her finger—the same delicate band with the small, apple blossom diamond she asked me to hold on to. It catches the last of the light now, glinting like a quiet kind of victory.
She presses her forehead to mine beneath our tree. And in that moment, the world rights itself. We’re not running anymore. Not hiding. We’re claiming this. Each other.
And this time, love holds.
* * *
One Month Later
T he sun hasn’t fully broken the horizon when we meet Misty at the orchard gate.
The air is cool, dew threading the grass and dusting the truck tires. Her bags are already loaded in the bed—just essentials. One suitcase. A pile of sketchbooks. A jar of Blake’s apple butter in the cup holder, because of course it is.
She stands beside the truck in jeans and boots, braid swinging, arms crossed tight like she’s keeping herself from unraveling.
I don’t wait.
I cross the gravel and pull her into a hug that nearly breaks both of us. She lets out a breath I don’t think she meant to release, and I feel it—how much she’s still carrying. I don’t say anything. I just hold her until I’m ready to let go.
And when I do, it’s slow. Like handing over something fragile.
“You’ll check in?” I ask.
She nods. “I promise.”
Emma and Eric step up next. Emma wraps Misty in a hug and whispers something fierce and tender into her ear. Eric presses a small silver phone into her palm.
“Emergency flip phone,” he mutters. “Encrypted. Don’t lose it.”
“I won’t.”
She turns to Joanne and Ethan. Joanne’s chin wobbles, but she holds back the tears. Opens her arms, and Misty walks into them without hesitation.
“You know this doesn’t change anything,” Joanne says, her voice thick. “You’re still mine. No matter where you go.”
“I know,” Misty whispers.
Ethan clears his throat, rough. “I didn’t get to know you when you were little. But I see you now. And I’m proud of the woman standing in front of me.”
Misty blinks fast. “That means more than you know.”
Finally, she turns to Annabelle.
Annabelle tries to smile. “I’m not saying goodbye. Just… see you soon.”
They hug hard. Then Misty leans close and whispers something to her. Annabelle nods, wiping her cheek.
Misty climbs into Suzy—a gift from Eric. I made sure she’ll last at least a dozen more trips between Lords Valley and New York. The engine turns over, low and steady. She sits there for a moment, hands on the wheel, just staring at the orchard.
Then she drives.
We watch until she disappears over the ridge.
Joanne’s voice cracks. “I should’ve gone with her.”
Ethan wraps an arm around her waist. “She needed to do this on her own.”
The wind stirs through the trees, rattling leaves and memory.
I exhale. Long. Slow. Like I’ve been holding my breath since the day she came home.
Annabelle reaches for my hand.
We stand there, quiet. The space Misty left behind holds warmth in the air. Not empty. Not really.
Just open.
Like the start of something new.