Page 74 of Dirty Mechanic
The forged divorce. The blackmail. San Francisco. It’s all out there, still circling, still waiting to strike. And every time he looks at me with that unguarded certainty, a little voice in my chest whispers: He’ll never forgive me when he finds out I didn’t tell him everything.
Eventually, the pies make it to the oven. Derek promises to handle the cleanup, though judging by the trail of flour across the floor, and the glint in his eye, it might take him a while.
The oven ticks behind me, counting down the minutes like it knows what I’m about to do.
Derek hums to himself as he wipes down the counters, utterly oblivious to the storm still gathering at the edges of my life.
I slip out the back door barefoot, the porch warm underfoot, the morning sun already starting to burn through the dew. The RV sits quietly in the yard, tucked behind the barn like a sleeping secret. From here, it looks harmless.
But I know better.
Inside that metal box is the truth I’ve tried to bury twice—once in San Francisco, and again in the folds of forged paperwork.
I swing the door open. The scent of dust, lavender cleaner, and memories hits me like a punch. I step inside, the floor creaking under my weight.
Everything’s exactly how I left it.
Folded blankets. Empty teacup. That crooked picture frame of Derek holding a trout and grinning like an idiot.
I reach under the bench seat.
The journal is still there. So is the gun.
I wrap the pistol in an old dish towel and slip it into the bottom of my tote bag beneath a Tupperware of bourbon pecan tarts. Southern hospitality and self-defense, all in one.
The weight of it shifts something inside me. Something braver. Something colder.
I’m done looking over my shoulder. Done hiding. If I can get Mike alone, I’ll make him understand in a language he finally respects: fear. He leaves this town for good, or I expose everything.
I close the RV quietly and pause at the door, holding the tote close to my body. One Bishop was hell. Two? That’s enough to burn the whole orchard down.
I head back into the kitchen just as the oven timer dings. Derek’s bent over tying his boots, flour still smudged on his forearm like a love note I forgot to erase.
“You good?” he asks, looking up at me with those soft, searching eyes.
I nod, a little too fast. “Yeah. Just checking the weather.”
He glances out the window. “Still sunny.”
“Good.” I move past him, grab the pies, and slide them into the stacked boxes like I didn’t just arm myself with a loaded threat.
The truth sits at the bottom of my bag, heavy and silent.
Waiting.
The scent of apples and cinnamon clings to my skin, the last trace of a morning that smelled suspiciously like absolution and flour-fueled sin. The truck's packed, the pies are still warm, and Derek just hoisted the last crate like he’s auditioning for a firefighter calendar.
“You know,” I say as I climb into the passenger seat, “if you keep lifting like that, I’m going to need a round two on that RV table.”
He smirks, cocky and unrepentant. “Now that’s motivation.”
The truck rumbles to life beneath us. My heart does too, but for a different reason.
May Day awaits.
So does Mike.
And this time, I brought insurance.
