Chapter 15 Annabelle
R ain streaks across the windshield like ink bleeding down a page.
He hasn’t said a word.
Not since the race. Not since the finish line. Not since he reached for my hand, gripped it like a verdict, and walked me to the truck without looking back.
The silence is worse than yelling. Worse than anger.
Because this? This is the silence of unraveling.
The wipers drag across the glass in a steady rhythm, a tired metronome ticking down the end of us.
The road is dark and slick, headlights bouncing off puddles, making ghosts of every tree we pass.
I want to speak. I want to scream. I want to throw myself across the console and beg him to say something—anything—but I stay still.
Because I know…… He knows.
And I can feel him slipping through my fingers with every mile we drive.
His hands grip the wheel so tightly, his knuckles glow white. His jaw is a slab of granite, carved and cold. Even in the dim light, I can see the muscle twitch in his cheek.
He doesn’t look at me. Not once.
I press my hand to my stomach, trying to steady my breathing, trying to hold myself together. My heart’s pounding so loudly, I swear, it echoes in the cab. I keep stealing glances at him, hoping for something—softness, anger, anything—but he’s a wall.
And I am crumbling beside him.
The rain intensifies, turning the world outside to blur and shadow. Thunder cracks somewhere distant. The silence between us deepens, filling the truck like smoke. Choking. Clinging.
I think about the ring on my finger. The vows whispered under fairy lights. The way his voice shook when he said I was his.
I think about Mike. The forged papers. Every lie I clung to about why I couldn’t tell Derek the truth.
And I think—I’ve lost him.
He pulls into the driveway. The porch light flickers. The engine cuts.
He gets out without a word.
I follow.
The wind bites at my skin as I close the truck door behind me, the storm curling around the farmhouse like a warning. Each step across the gravel feels like a plea.
The screen door creaks open in his hand. He walks inside, tracking rain with his boots, shedding wet tension in every stride.
"Derek...please," I say softly.
No response.
The living room is quiet, only the hum of the fridge and the soft pelt of rain on the roof to keep me company. He disappears down the hallway, his shoulders a wall of fury and restraint.
The dogs are nowhere in sight. Probably curled up in our bed, unaware the world is splintering again. I hear the bathroom door shut. Then the water.
I stand in the center of the room, unsure what to do with my hands, my breath, my guilt.
He didn’t yell. He didn’t accuse. But silence can leave scars deeper than any scream.
I drift to the couch like a ghost, blanket clutched to my chest like armor. The cushions still smell like us—cider and cinnamon, and something warm that makes my chest ache.
I think of the RV. The first time. The way his hands trembled on my skin like I was something precious. The way we burned and bloomed in the same breath.
Thunder rolls in the distance, low and mean.
I curl into the corner of the couch, arms tight around my knees. The blanket is soft, but it doesn't stop the chill. The fridge hums. The rain drums steadily. I count the beats like penance.
I told myself I was protecting him. But maybe, I was protecting myself.
Because the truth? It's ugly. It’s messy. It’s wrapped in shame and fear and a forged piece of paper that may have destroyed everything we’ve built.
And now, I’m here. Alone. Watching the rain slide down the windowpane like it’s weeping for me.
The water stops.
So does my heart.
Footsteps.
He’s coming back.
And I don’t know if it’s to stay, or to say goodbye.
He steps out of the hallway slowly, hair damp, clean clothes clinging to broad shoulders. But there’s no softness in his eyes, just a storm he’s barely containing.
He looks at me like I’m the reason he can’t breathe.
“I saw him,” he says, voice rough. “In the pit, before the race. Mike.”
My chest cracks.
“He told me you’re married.”
I can’t speak. My lips part, but nothing comes.
“Tell me he’s lying,” he says.
But he knows. I see it in his eyes.
I press a hand to my mouth as a sob escapes. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like this.”
My voice cracks, but I can’t stop now. “You weren’t there when he said I could marry him or go to jail. When he threatened to send you to prison just to make me comply. When he burned down my parents’ house to prove he meant it.”
The words spill faster.
“He told me he’d use me for a green card, then shoved a pen in my hand and said if I didn’t sign, I’d disappear. You didn’t see the bruises, Derek. The swelling. The way he hit me—over and over—until my vision blurred.”
My hand shakes. “You weren’t there when he told me I’d never leave alive.”
His eyes go glassy, but he doesn’t blink.
I drag a breath through my stuffed nose. “I had no choice. I forged divorce papers and prayed they’d go through. I just wanted to be free.”
I think back to the barn dance. The breeze that kicked up, the banner tearing free. We were swaying beneath fairy lights and laughter. I remember the exact beat—the way he looked at me like I was his whole damn world. I opened my mouth. I had the words. They were right there, crowding my throat:
There’s something I need to tell you…
But then he kissed my forehead and jogged off to help Sheriff Simon, and I let the moment pass.
I let all the moments pass.
Because how do you shatter someone’s joy when they’re finally breathing easily? How do you look the love of your life in the eye and say, “Everything you think we are might be a lie”?
And I swallow it again now, because the truth is, I should’ve told him that first night at Rusty Lantern. When he looked at me like I was still his. Because I see it now—in the way his eyes go wide, the way something inside him splinters—I was his.
“You… You forged divorce papers?”
“I’m sorry.” The words tumble out. “I panicked. I just wanted him gone. I just wanted to be free.”
He steps back, jaw slack. “Jesus Christ, Annabelle.”
Not a big movement, just the smallest recoil, like my confession hit a nerve buried deep in his chest. Like the words physically struck him. His eyes shutter. His jaw flexes. His hand curls into a fist at his side.
And in that heartbeat, I see it.
The grief.
The betrayal.
The way his mind must be spinning, replaying every kiss, every promise, every whispered vow now tinged with doubt.
My lip trembles. The tears come harder now, burning tracks down my face.
“So that’s it,” he says. “What about our marriage? Fuck, is that even legal?”
But the sob stuck in my throat wedges there so deeply, I can’t reply.
He just stares. Not moving. Not blinking. Just standing there like if he shifts an inch, the whole world might crack open. Absorbing every word like a blade.
The storm rumbles outside, but inside, it’s worse.
I can hear the drip of rain off the gutters. The faint creak of the house settling. My own breath, ragged, like a child trying not to sob in church.
He’s not yelling. He’s not accusing. He’s just...quiet.
And it’s unbearable.
I reach for him. “Please?—”
He steps back. Slow. Deliberate.
Like my touch burns.
Like I’m poison, and he just figured it out.
His lips part like he might say something, might scream, or cry, or whisper something that could save us.
But all he says is, “Lock the door. Stay inside.”
Then he turns, his boots thudding dully against the hardwood.
The door opens. Rain rushes in. And then it closes with a soft, final click that splits my chest wide open.
I stare at the empty doorway, the silence deafening. My heart aches, heavy as a stone.
My gaze slips to my left hand, to the beautiful pink diamond apple blossom ring Derek placed there. My throat tightens. It feels wrong now. Like a lie. Like something I never earned.
I pull it off slowly, like it hurts. It does.
My fingers tremble as I slide it off, my skin colder without it. The ring sits heavy in my palm, catching the dim kitchen light, a reminder of promises I’ve already broken.
I leave it on the counter, glittering softly beneath the light. It doesn't belong to me, not until everything between us is real again.
I don’t know how long I sit on the sofa. Long enough for the rain to soak through the soundproofing and echo in my bones. Long enough for the air in the house to grow thick with everything unsaid. I stare at the door like it might bring him back. Like if I just will it open, he’ll return.
But he doesn’t.
The blanket around me suddenly feels too heavy. Too warm and not warm enough. I pull it tighter anyway, like I can stitch myself together with cotton and hope.
I let him build a life on a cracked foundation, all the while pretending the rot wasn’t spreading under the floorboards. I kissed him. Slept beside him. Promised him forever with a ring I had no right to wear.
And he held me like I was everything.
Now I’m scared to move. Scared to breathe wrong. Scared that this—this silence—isn’t a pause.
It’s the end.
Lightning flashes again outside, throwing his empty coffee mug into relief on the counter. The one he left there this morning. Like it was just any day. Like we had more mornings.
Bear and Kara are curled together under the kitchen table. The puppies are inside the laundry room with their mama, warm and sleepy.
I press my hand to my chest. Feel my heartbeat stutter. Everything in me is begging to rewind time. To pick a different day. A different path. A different girl. Maybe one who wasn’t so damn broken she mistook silence for safety.
I blink up at the ceiling through tears I can’t feel anymore.
Because the truth is, I didn’t just betray him.
I betrayed us.
And if he never comes back through that door...
I’ll never forgive myself.
I sit there for another minute. Maybe more. Long enough for the storm to deepen into a steady roar outside, the wind sighing through the eaves like the house itself is grieving.
Then I stand. Slowly. Quietly. Like if I move too fast, I’ll break whatever fragile thing is still left inside me. The blanket slides from my shoulders. The chill finds me again, but I let it. I deserve to feel cold right now.
I grab my tote bag with the gun and move toward the back door, barefoot, every step across the floor a question.
Do I still belong here?
Do I still deserve him?
My fingers close around the knob. I pause. Listen for boots on gravel, for the sound of his truck rolling back in.
Nothing.
I push the door open.
The wind slaps me in the face, wet and wild. The rain’s still coming down, thick as curtain strings, but I make the dash across the yard, head bent, hair plastered to my cheeks. The RV looms like a memory in the dark.
Inside, it’s stuffy. Familiar. Still ours.
I sink onto the bench, my knees folding up beside me.
The vinyl creaks beneath my weight, same as it used to.
And for a split second, I’m back in motion—wind in my hair, my feet on the dash, and Derek laughing as I sing off-key, louder than the radio.
I don’t remember the landscapes either. Just the way he looked at me like I was the whole damn view.
I stand in the center of the space and breathe.
This is where we found each other again.
Where I gave him my body, my fears, my name, even if he hadn’t given me his yet. Where we tangled in sheets and promises, and for a moment, the whole world faded to just us and the sound of his breath against my skin.
It’s also where the truth almost came out. Twice. And both times, I swallowed it back like poison.
I kneel and open the RV’s bench seat, fingertips searching in the dark. My breath catches when I find the journal exactly where I left it. I slip my hand inside the tote bag and my hand closes around the cool metal of the gun.
I set both items on the table with care, like sacred things. One for memory. One for survival.
I stare at them for a long time, the rain ticking louder on the roof, thunder growling somewhere distant.
Then I open the journal.
The pen shakes in my fingers. But I write.
If you’re reading this, Mike, know this: I am not the girl you blackmailed into signing those marriage papers.
Not the girl you burned out of her home, who flinched when you walked into a room.
You took everything—my freedom, my name, the people I loved.
You threatened Derek. You used fear like a weapon. You made me lie.
But you didn’t break me. You forged me.
I’ve got the scars, the truth, and the ledger you never meant for me to find. You want a war?
Come for me.
Just know—I’m done running.
I survived you.
And this time, I bite back.
I sign my name.
Not the fake one.
Not the version you painted in fear.
Just me.
Annabelle.
The rain has slowed to a whisper by the time I hear the truck.
At first, I think I’m imagining it. That I conjured the rumble out of hope or heartbreak or some twisted mix of both. But then headlights arc across the window, and I know it’s him.
I hide the journal and the gun back in the bench seat, stand slowly, heart lurching like it’s bracing for impact.
Thunder murmurs somewhere distant, like even the storm isn’t sure what comes next.
I move to the door, fingers hovering at the latch. I don’t open it. Not yet.
Not until I hear him call my name.
“Annabelle!”
He’s standing across the yard. His shirt clings to him, soaked straight through, and his hair’s plastered to his forehead. He looks older somehow. Weathered. Like the last hour aged him a year.
Standing in the doorway, buffeted by the wind, I don’t wave. I don’t speak. I freeze.
For one suspended moment, our eyes lock across the rain-slicked yard. Mine full of everything I haven’t said. His too clouded to read.
Because I don’t know if he’s come back to forgive me…
Or to say goodbye.