Chapter 4 Derek #2
I know that sound of brakes screaming for mercy. I step outside to meet the driver of that familiar red Chevy.
A man gets out. Nice suit. Soulless eyes.
“Morning,” I call, already bracing.
He closes the door like he’s sealing a deal, then marches forward, hand out. “Mike.”
I meet it with a firm, measuring grip.
“Derek. What brings you here?”
“She’s backfiring.” He jerks his chin toward the car. “George at the Motor-Inn said you’re the guy to see.”
“Motor-Inn, huh? Hope you like spiders.”
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t blink.
“Pop the hood,” I mutter.
“Key’s in the ignition.”
I slide behind the wheel and crank it. Sputter. Cough. Stall—twice.
Under the hood, I work without thinking. Shredded timing belt. Low fluids. Loose fuse. Neglect, not bad luck. Someone let this car rot.
I point to the engine. “You’ve got about five minutes before this thing eats itself. The belt’s toast. When it snaps, the engine follows. ”
Mike barely reacts. “She’ll hold.”
That tone. Flat as pavement. Too calm.
“What line of work you in?” I ask.
“Property management. Out west.”
He says it like a man used to hiding things. Suit says finance. Voice says predator.
“Lords Valley’s a long drive for property.”
He steps in closer. “Following a DNA trail.”
His gaze skips past me and locks onto my front door.,
My gut tightens.
He’s not here for a tune-up. He’s here for her. I just don’t know why.
“Small town,” I say. “People talk. You’ll find whatever you’re looking for—if you ask the right folks.”
I tighten the fuse, keeping my voice even.
He smiles with all teeth, and no warmth. “I think I already have.”
I slam the hood.
“Loose fuse. It’ll run—for now. But you’ll want that belt changed. Soon.”
He pats his jacket pocket, like reaching for something that isn’t there. “Damn. Left my wallet.”
Classic.
I grab a rag, ready to send him off, but something flutters from his pocket—green lace with pink apple blossoms—my brain stutters.
I know those panties.
I’ve undressed her from those panties.
He snatches them up, and shoves them deep in his pocket. “Just a keepsake,” he says. “Plenty more where that came from.”
My fists curl and knuckles crack. Rage licks up my spine like fire in dry brush. He’s not just circling—he’s marking.
But I keep my voice steady.“No charge. But you’re running on borrowed time.”
He climbs into the Chevy like he owns the world, tosses me a smirk, and drives off—leaving a crater where my calm used to dwell.
I yank my phone. Call Annabelle.
No answer.
Try again—still nothing.
Jaw tight, I pocket the phone, grab my Swiss Army knife, and head into town.
At the Sheriff’s office, I collect Annabelle’s suitcase. Misty’s behind the counter—strong, centered, every bit the woman she’s become. A survivor.
“George brought it by last night,” she says, rolling the suitcase over. “Heard Annabelle’s back. She staying with you?”
“She is. Hoping she sticks around.”
“Need help making that happen?” She grins.
“Wish you could,” I say—then add a wink. “But I’m working on it.”
Misty’s smile fades. “Have you met Mike? New guy in town. Saw him at the coffee stand this morning, and he gives me the creeps.”
“Stopped by the garage, and the feeling’s mutual. Keep your distance, Misty. I don’t trust him.”
She stands straight. “I can handle myself.”
Says every woman just before she’s kidnapped. I lay my palm over hers. “I’d rather my family were safe, so keep your distance.”
She nods.
Back home, I drop the suitcase at the stairs and slip into the garage. Every floorboard creak sets my skin on edge and every gravel crunch raises the hairs on my neck.
An hour later, I hear the faint scrape of her bicycle, but she doesn’t come find me—so I go to her.
Upstairs, the scent of soap hits me first, clean, sharp, intoxicating. I raise my hand to knock just as the bathroom door swings open. There she is, wearing only my shirt.
I forget how to breathe.
“Derek!” She grips the frame. The shirt rides up, and my brain flatlines.
“I was just—” My voice dies.
“Checking for spiders?” A smirk teases her lips.
Holy hell. I swallow. “No spiders,” I rasp. “But I can double-check under your shirt.”
Her smile falters. “Maybe get the RV ready instead?”
There’s more in her tone. She’s not up for the camper either, yet she’s stubborn. She reaches for sweatpants.
“I didn’t mean to walk in on you—again.”
“It’s your house. I’m just figuring out where I belong.”
My throat tightens. She belongs here. With me.
She belongs everywhere.
I nod toward my bedroom. “Your suitcase is on the bed. You can change.”
She tugs on the shirt’s hem. “I might keep this on. Smells like motor oil and home.”
Fuck.
Her face lights up like it used to, but her eyes hold distance. I step back, forcing myself out. I need caffeine—or maybe a sedative, because finding the right moment to warn her about Mike feels impossible.
One way or another, I’m about to be glued to her hip.
Her voice drifts down the stairs: “You think the RV will be ready tomorrow?”
The kitchen’s counter slips from under my sweaty grip. “I doubt it.”
She’ll get the same answer until I have no choice.
“So”—she appears in the doorway, arms crossed, hip cocked—“I guess I’m staying.”
Somehow, her family’s loss and her brother’s crowded house become my victory. It’s selfish, but I don’t care. She’s here, and she’s staying with me.
I pull steaks from the fridge. “Guess so.”
She strides across the kitchen, flinging cupboard doors open. “I hope you stocked up on fritter fixings, because I need to bake.”
I didn’t just stock up. I’ve got crates of last season’s apples chilling in the orchard fridge, and the cold room is lined with jars of homemade pie filling.
She jabs a finger into my chest. “And if I wake up with a dog in my bed, I’m taking my chances in the spider-infested camper.”
I catch her finger in my fist—gentle but firm. “No promises, Honeycrisp.”
She groans, the corners of her lips tugging into a reluctant smile.
It’s small, but it’s a start.
And no way in hell am I letting her go again.