Chapter 24 Derek
T he courtroom smells like lemon polish and quiet bullshit. Dust floats in the sunlight like it’s got secrets to tell, and every creak of the benches sounds like judgment. I sit cuff-free, but the memory of that metal still burns into my wrist like it left a brand.
Annabelle sits beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch.
She doesn’t say anything, and she doesn’t need to.
Our fingers are laced beneath the table, and every time she squeezes, I squeeze back.
It’s a silent promise—we made it off that rooftop.
Even if the state doesn’t recognize our vows yet, I do. Every damn word.
Behind us, Caroline murmurs to Cash Wagner—our legal nuke from New York, handpicked by Emma and worth every silver dollar she pulled to bring him here.
Cash looks like a man who’s never lost a fight.
Caroline, belly first and fire second, looks like she hasn’t slept in days but still wouldn’t hesitate to eat a prosecutor alive.
Annabelle’s marriage to Mike is nearly annulled—Cash filed under duress and trauma. One judge’s signature and she’ll finally be free to love me without that bastard’s name still stuck to hers like rot.
Misty’s behind us in the gallery, small and pale in a wheelchair that looks too big for her now. She won’t meet my eyes. Keeps wringing a tissue like she’s trying to twist the pain out of her fingers. There’s something about her that feels distant, like part of her already left town.
“She needs to leave town,” Emma whispers behind me.
“It’s the only way to keep her safe,” Caroline replies. “We’ll arrange a safe house. Somewhere Rick won’t think to look.”
Misty doesn’t say a word, but her grip on the chair tightens until her knuckles go white.
Then the bailiff calls court to order. Judge Holloway enters, robes sweeping like a storm cloud. The air shifts. Cameras snap behind us, and I feel Annabelle tense beside me.
The prosecutor stands. Smug little man with a voice that thinks it owns the damn room.
“Your Honor,” he begins, “we’re here today regarding the charges against Annabelle Waters.
The state believes Ms. Waters is responsible for the murder of John Huntz and, potentially, his son, Michael Bishop.
We request the court deny any further bail, as we possess critical evidence of intent, motive, and opportunity.
Specifically, ripped pages from Annabelle Waters’ own journal contain what we consider to be a written confession, clearly outlining her actions and state of mind. ”
A hush settles over the courtroom like fog. Heavy. Watching.
I keep my breathing steady even as my pulse starts hammering. My jaw locks, but I glance at Annabelle. Her hands are trembling in her lap. She looks over.
I meet her eyes. Hold. Squeeze her fingers.
We’ve got this.
Cash rises like a storm front in a tailored Armani suit. Calm. Collected. Dangerous.
“Your Honor,” he begins, “the ripped pages from Annabelle Waters’ journal have been presented out of context—literally torn from their spine and distorted from the truth.
The prosecution hasn’t established a chain of custody or authenticated the handwriting within any cohesive narrative.
We’re not even sure when the entries were written, or if they were edited. ”
He starts pacing. Slow and deliberate, like every step is part of the argument.
“Furthermore, no forensic evidence ties my client to a murder weapon. Riverbed forensics show no indication that John Huntz’s fall off that bridge was caused by a weapon, and the medical examiner’s report confirms we cannot establish if Huntz drowned or bled out, given the body’s delayed recovery.”
He stops in front of the jury box and plants his stance like a man who’s carved out victories in rooms like this a hundred times.
“This was not premeditated. This was a woman fighting to survive a man who had terrorized her since kidnapping her at eleven. The only calculated plan here belonged to the man who framed her for his father’s death. A man who died chasing ghosts.”
The silence afterward feels like a held breath—too full to swallow.
Judge Holloway nods, slow and unreadable. “Anything further?”
The prosecutor adjusts his tie, smirking just enough to piss me off.
“One more detail, Your Honor. According to the sworn affidavit filed by Richard Bishop, the defendant Derek Fields wielded a wrench the night of the incident. He claims Mr. Fields struck John Huntz using the wrench after Huntz surfaced near the riverbank.”
A ripple cuts through the gallery.
My spine locks. Hands clenched under the table. My first instinct is to bark back, but Cash glances at me, and I lean in.
“He’s twisting it. I had the wrench—didn’t use it. Threw it,” I whisper.
Cash straightens immediately.
“Your Honor, my client acknowledges having a wrench that night. It was in his truck; he grabbed it solely for protection in case Huntz came after them. But he never used it. Mr. Fields threw the wrench into the river specifically to avoid violence. Huntz fell, surfaced briefly, then disappeared. My client never touched him.”
The prosecutor shakes his head like we’re all full of shit. “How convenient.”
Cash’s voice sharpens like a blade. “Convenient? Or cautious? My client was protecting a woman from a man with a known history of violence and abduction. There's no forensic evidence tying Derek Fields—or any object—to Huntz’s death. No wound. No contusion. No trace of blunt force trauma.”
Judge Holloway leans forward, voice clipped. “Unless you produce the wrench, counsel, this stays speculation.”
Cash doesn’t miss a beat. “Your Honor, we’ve also filed to vacate Ms. Waters’ prior marriage under coercion. Upon reviewing her psychological profiles and sworn affidavits, it’s clear this was not a marriage. It was captivity.”
Caroline nods from behind the table, tapping the file. “And the court accepted.”
Judge Holloway flips through the documents, then lifts his eyes. “I’ve reviewed the submitted affidavits, psychological evaluations, and supporting documents. The petition to annul is granted. The prior marriage is hereby declared null and void.”
There’s no reaction from the gallery—but I feel the shift. Like the air in the room just got lighter.
The judge flips another page. “Counsel, are you moving for dismissal at this time?”
“Filed and ready,” Caroline says, standing with the kind of authority that doesn’t ask permission.
The gavel taps. A recess is called.
I finally breathe.
Behind me, I hear Emma crouch beside Misty, murmuring something I can’t make out.
Misty blinks like she’s waking up from a long, underwater dream.
When Cash steps forward to adjust her coat, she flinches.
He doesn’t push. Just folds the edge of the blanket carefully and steps back, watching her with that quiet, calculating focus—like he’s studying a fragile thing with fire still flickering inside.
Caroline comes up beside me at the railing. I lean in.
“What happens if Rick never shows?”
Her jaw tightens. “US Marshals are already involved. He crossed state lines. We’ll get him. But Misty’s right—she needs to disappear for a while. There’s a target on her, and it’s not just emotional.”
I glance toward my sister. Her chin’s high now, but I know that posture—it’s armor. Her coat trembles at the shoulders. Light catches on the apple blossom pin at her collar, and for a second she looks like the girl she used to be—before Rick, before the secrets.
Emma hands her a bottle of water. Misty clutches it too tight, her white-knuckled grip mirrored in the tablet screen on Cash’s lap.
“Are they gonna press charges against her?” I ask.
“Cash is negotiating full immunity,” Caroline says, flipping through the file again. “Her testimony about that night—and about Rick—is too important. And the ledger she found in the rubble?” Her tone sharpens. “It’s gold. Makes Rick look like he inherited more than his father’s money.”
Cash doesn’t even glance up. “We’ve already linked Rick to at least three shell companies. Hidden assets. Fraud. It’s the kind of evidence that makes judges nervous and defense attorneys sweat. They’ll drop anything they can’t prove clean in exchange for the paper trail.”
I smirk. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
Caroline lifts the file in her lap. “That ledger might be the reason we win this.”
Cash finally glances at Misty. His voice softens. “You gave us the first nail in his coffin.”
Misty doesn’t respond. Just stares straight ahead, shoulders drawn like a wire.
I turn back to Caroline. “And the forged divorce papers?”
She exhales through her nose. “Doesn’t matter. We filed to vacate the Bishop marriage under duress. The court agrees there was no valid consent. It’ll be officially annulled by Friday.”
Something tight uncoils in my chest.
“So Annabelle and I…”
Caroline finally smiles. “Are free to get married. This time, with actual paperwork.”
I nod, throat thick. Thank God.
I shuffle toward Misty and ease down beside her, one arm slipping around her shoulders.
“You okay?” I ask.
She exhales—quiet, but final. “Once you guys are cleared, I’m leaving as soon as they let me. I can’t stay here. Not with Rick still out there—” Her voice cracks, and for a second, I see the girl I used to carry on my shoulders at the fair, not the broken woman barely holding herself together now.
I press my forehead gently against hers. “You saved Blake. You saved us. You belong here.”
Her shoulders lift in a shrug so small it almost doesn’t register—until I catch her bottom lip trembling. Then she locks it down, hard. “Rick will be looking for me. He told me he’ll never stop. Better he chases shadows than puts you both at risk.”
There’s a knot in my throat, sharp as steel. “We’ll stay in touch.”
She pulls back, and for the first time all morning, her eyes are steady. “Promise me you’ll keep living your life. For Blake.”
I nod. “Of course.”