Part 7: The Fight Back
Flames crawl different than fists. Fists you see coming. Fire sneaks up your walls like a thief, whispers first, then roars.
The bottle burst near the woodstove, glass shattering, liquid spreading. Orange tongues leapt hungrily across the floorboards. The cabin groaned like it knew its years were numbered.
“Naomi!” I bellowed.
Her closet door flung open. She bolted out, coughing, eyes wide. Diesel herded her toward the back, his body between her and the fire like a wall of muscle and teeth.
“Stay low! Out the window!” I shouted.
She froze. “What about you?”
“Go!”
Another kick hit the front door, splintering wood, smoke rushing toward the ceiling. I grabbed the first thing heavy—an iron wrench from the table—and planted myself. If they came through fire, they were gonna bleed for it.
The door cracked. A hooded figure shoved inside, bat swinging. Diesel launched before I could blink. He hit the man chest-high, jaws clamping down on fabric and flesh. The bat clattered. The guy screamed and stumbled back into the dark. Diesel followed him halfway out, then returned to my side, muzzle wet, teeth bared.
Two more shadows lurked outside, embers lighting their faces. Crowley’s goons. Probably paid with beer and hate.
One shouted, “Drag the girl out!”
Naomi gasped. Her fear broke something inside me cleaner than any bone.
I charged the doorway, wrench up. The first thug swung wild with a chain. I ducked, drove the wrench into his ribs. The air whooshed out of him like a popped tire. He crumpled.
The second lunged, knife flashing. Diesel tore into his arm, shook until the blade hit dirt. I slammed my fist across his jaw, felt the bone give. He dropped, groaning.
The fire raged louder now, smoke thick and bitter. Naomi coughed hard, tears streaking down her face. “Rex—we can’t stay!”
She was right. The cabin I’d built my quiet life inside was dying. The walls I’d patched, the floor I’d walked hollow, every board soaked with years of silence—they were giving up.
“Out!” I grabbed Naomi’s arm, pulled her through the back window I’d forced open earlier. Diesel leapt after us, paws landing heavy.
We hit the cold night air. Stars blinked above like nothing had happened. But my chest burned, my throat raw. The cabin belched smoke behind us, flames gnawing through the roof like hungry mouths.
Neighbors’ lights flicked on across the valley. Someone shouted. Sirens wailed far off, too far.
Naomi collapsed in the grass, hacking. Diesel pressed against her, tail stiff but protective. I looked back once. My home, the place I’d tried to keep the world out of, was gone. Just like that.
Aftermath
By the time fire trucks arrived, there wasn’t much left to save. Ash drifted like snow. The pines hissed from the heat, and the porch where I’d spent countless nights watching shadows breathe collapsed in a spray of sparks.
Deputy Miller showed up, face pale, notebook in hand. He pulled me aside. “I’ll write this up straight—attack, arson, attempted abduction. But Rex, you know what Harlan’s gonna do with it.”
“Twist it.” My voice rasped like gravel. “Make me the criminal again.”
Miller hesitated. “I believe you. I believe her. But the system—”
I cut him off. “The system doesn’t bleed. We do.”
He didn’t argue. He just nodded, eyes full of things he wasn’t old enough to carry.
Naomi clung to Diesel, shivering in the cold, face smudged with ash. When the medics tried to check her, she shrank back. I crouched beside her.
“You hurt?”
She shook her head. “Just scared.”
“You got every right to be.”
For the first time since I’d met her, she reached out—not desperate, not panicked, just steady—and slipped her hand into mine.
Decision Time
Carla showed up the next morning, heels crunching over blackened earth, eyes scanning the wreck like a general surveying a battlefield. She didn’t bother with sympathy. “We’re filing charges. Assault, arson, conspiracy. This is escalation, Rex. It helps us.”
“Helps?” I laughed bitter. “My house is cinders. Naomi’s nightmares got teeth now. That’s your ‘help’?”
Her gaze softened. “It paints a picture no judge can ignore. Crowley’s losing control, and the town sees it.”
I shook my head. “The town’s split. Half think I’m a monster corrupting a kid. The other half… maybe they’re starting to see him. But maybe ain’t enough.”
Naomi tugged at Carla’s sleeve. “I’ll testify again. Louder this time. I don’t care if he’s watching.”
Carla crouched, met her eyes. “That’s brave. But it’s not just you anymore. With what happened last night, we can press for full removal of his rights. We might even push guardianship to Rex.”
Naomi blinked, then looked at me. Hope flickered like the first sunrise after a storm.
Guardianship. The word was heavier than any chain I’d ever worn. I’d never been trusted to care for anything but my bike and my dog. Now a girl who’d already lost too much was asking me to be more than her shelter.
I swallowed hard. “If that’s what keeps her safe, then yeah. I’m in.”
Naomi smiled through soot and tears, and it lit the ruin brighter than any fire.
The Whisper Campaign
But Crowley didn’t roll over. Within days, the smear machine roared. Flyers taped to poles: Felon hides girl. Dangerous biker with pitbull. Local radio caller ranted about “outlaw gangs stealing kids.” Social media spat venom—half the town swore Naomi was brainwashed, the other half prayed for her.
We couldn’t go anywhere without stares. At the grocery store, one woman slipped Naomi an apple, whispering “stay strong.” Another hissed “homewrecker” under her breath.
Naomi held her head high. Stronger than I expected. Stronger than me some days. Diesel walked beside her like a four-legged shadow, daring anyone to step closer.
One night, Naomi asked, “Why do people believe him?”
“Because lies are easier,” I said. “Truth makes folks pick sides. Lies let ‘em stay comfortable.”
She nodded like she understood. Too well.
The Breaking Point
A week later, Carla called. “Emergency hearing. Crowley’s demanding the order be lifted. He claims you staged the attack to frame him. Says you burned your own cabin for sympathy.”
My gut clenched. “That’s insane.”
“Doesn’t matter. He’s got signatures from half a dozen townsfolk swearing you’re unstable. The judge has to hear it.”
That night Naomi cried for the first time since the fire. Not loud. Just silent tears she thought I didn’t see. Diesel licked her cheek, curled tighter around her. I sat in the dark, staring at the ashes outside, fists useless.
This was it. The system could flip any way. We were standing on the edge of a blade.
The Court Again
The courtroom buzzed. Crowley strutted in with fresh polish—new suit, new lawyer, hair slicked back. His bruisers sat in the back, bandaged but smirking.
Carla leaned to me. “Stay calm. Let Naomi speak if she wants. Don’t rise to bait.”
The judge entered, weary eyes scanning both sides. “We are here to revisit the protective order. Mr. Thompson alleges misconduct. Ms. Martinez, proceed.”
Carla laid it out: the fire, the attack, Naomi’s statement. Photos of the wreckage. The medic’s report on smoke inhalation. My burned hands.
Crowley’s lawyer countered: “No evidence ties my client to this. Mr. Dalton is a convicted felon with a violent history. He benefits from playing the hero. Desperate men do desperate things.”
Murmurs. Doubt again, thick as smoke.
Naomi stood before anyone asked. Voice clear. “He didn’t burn it. Crowley’s men did. I saw their faces. They wanted to drag me out. Diesel stopped them.”
The gallery shifted. Even the judge leaned forward.
Crowley hissed, “Liar.”
Naomi flinched—but didn’t break. “You’re the liar. And if you send me back, I won’t make it out alive next time.”
The judge held up a hand. “Enough. I will review.”
But as the gavel came down, I saw Crowley lean close to his lawyer, lips curling into a promise I knew too well: This isn’t over.
Part 8: The Revelation
Some truths don’t kick the door in. They slip a thin blade under the latch and wait for you to breathe.
The morning after court, the air had that brittle edge before a storm. Naomi sat at my borrowed kitchen table—Hank’s, for now—turning a pencil between her fingers. Diesel snored on her feet like a space heater with a heartbeat. She was drawing the fire, which I wished she wouldn’t, but you don’t get to choose someone else’s medicine. In the flame she’d sketched a shape that looked like a hand reaching out and something else reaching back—maybe a dog’s paw, maybe a person’s. She shaded the smoke like it had weight.
Carla texted: Come to the office. Bring Naomi if she’s up for it. Big.
We drove into town in Hank’s truck because the wind had turned mean and the bike would’ve bit. Carla’s office lived above the insurance agency, stairs that groaned like old men. Inside, files and coffee and the kind of clean that’s too busy to be pretty. She had a manila folder on her desk and a look in her eyes that said strap in.
She shut the door, lowered her voice. “I hired a PI last week. Off the books. I couldn’t say anything until we had more than smoke. Now we do.” She tapped the folder. “Crowley Thompson isn’t Crowley Thompson.”
My neck went hot. “Say it plain.”
“Legal name change six years ago in Oklahoma. Before that? Thomas Pike. Two arrests on domestic battery. One protective order from a girlfriend—granted. One violation—dismissed when she left the state and wouldn’t testify. He skipped counties twice. Came here under the new name, married Naomi’s mom within months.”
Naomi’s fingers went still on the pencil. “He told Mom he’d never even had a speeding ticket.”
Carla slid photos across the desk—copies of court dockets, a grainy booking photo with younger eyes and the same mean mouth. The hair was different, the beard thinner, but it was him. The same shoulders. The same me first in the posture.
“Judge didn’t let past acts in,” I said. “He said ‘lack of evidence.’”
Carla nodded. “Character evidence is tricky in family court, but pattern matters when safety’s at stake. We file a motion to admit prior acts under safety exception. I’m drafting it. We’ll attach sworn statements, certified records. The PI found an ex—Marla. If I can get her to testify by phone, it tilts the floor.”
Naomi’s voice was small but sharp. “He hurt her too.”
Carla didn’t soften it. “Yes.”
I felt the old poison rise—useless rage that doesn’t heal anybody. I swallowed it down like bad whiskey. “What about the fire?”
Carla opened another file. “State fire marshal’s preliminary: accelerant present—gasoline cut with motor oil. Glass fragments from a standard longneck beer bottle. Rag is bar-grade cotton—blue stripe.” She slid a photo of the rag tail, half burned, still showing a stitched TR. “Thunder Run Tavern,” she said. “Their bar rags have that mark.”
“That’s Crowley’s bar,” Naomi whispered.
“He practically lives there,” I said. “Half the county does.”
Carla held up a hand. “It’s circumstantial. But it narrows the circle. I’ve subpoenaed their surveillance and inventory logs. Don’t get your hopes up—small-town taverns ‘lose’ footage like church folks lose memory—but it’s leverage.”
There was a knock. Carla cracked the door. Deputy Miller slipped in, off-duty jacket, eyes taking inventory like the room was a crime scene. He set a slim folder on the desk like it might bite him.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he said. “But if I don’t, nobody will.”
Carla’s eyebrow climbed. “You understand the risk?”
He nodded. “I pulled CAD logs—911 calls around Crowley’s address. There are seven over two years that never made it past ‘resolved at scene.’ Four were Hank’s. Three were anonymous—my guess, Naomi.” He looked at her, gentle. “All three were closed by Harlan in under ten minutes. Body cam off on two of ‘em.”
My hands closed into fists and opened again, like lungs that didn’t know their job. “You can testify?”
Miller swallowed. “I can’t testify to whispers. But I can swear those entries exist. Internal Affairs can request more. If they do.”
Carla’s eyes flashed. “Then we give them a reason to. Thank you, Deputy.”
He nodded, shame and anger wrestling on his face. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. We broke trust.”
Naomi surprised all of us by standing and offering her hand. He took it like a man offered water.
On the drive back, we stopped at the vet. Diesel had glass in one pad we’d missed, and the world was already sharp enough without him limping. The vet—Dr. Mayhew, gray braid, voice like a soft song—worked with steady hands while Naomi pressed her forehead to Diesel’s and breathed with him. When he flinched, she did. When he relaxed, she smiled.
“Brave boy,” she whispered. “You saved me. Now my turn.”
Mayhew wrapped the paw. “No running for a few days, champ. Short walks. Lots of treats.”
Diesel wagged like he understood every word. Maybe he did. Dogs don’t need grammar for love.
Outside, a woman from church—I didn’t know her name—handed Naomi a grocery bag. Inside were cornbread, Band-Aids shaped like stars, and a note in tidy loops: Not everybody believes him. Naomi blinked hard and tucked the note into her pocket like a talisman.
Not five minutes later, a man in a ball cap muttered “kid stealer” loud enough for the sidewalk to hear. The two truths lived on the same block and never said hello.
Back at Hank’s, we made a war map out of a cracked coffee table. Carla’s motions, Miller’s logs, the PI’s folder. Hank added his notebook, a pencil stuck behind his ear like a weapon. Naomi drew lines between people I wouldn’t have connected: Thunder Run bartender—Earl Duffy—best friend to Crowley; Earl’s cousin works nights in the county records office; the cousin used to date Harlan’s sister. Small-town spiderweb. Pull one thread, the whole thing shakes.
“Feels like we’re pokin’ a hornet’s nest,” Hank said.
“We are,” I said. “But hornets don’t stop just because you’re polite.”
That night, Carla called with another piece. “I reached Marla—the ex. She’s scared, but she’ll talk if we can arrange a protected call. Says Pike—Crowley—broke her wrist, tried to strangle her once. I’m filing the motion first thing.”
I looked at Naomi. She wasn’t a kid on a couch anymore. She was upright, focused, hands steady around a mug Hank called coffee but tasted like boiled nails. “I want to be there,” she said.
“You will be,” I promised. “But we do it safe.”
We layered the safety like clothes in winter. Motion lights. Hank’s old trail cam strung to a pine facing the drive. A code word between me and Naomi—if she texted “apple,” it meant call 911 now. Miller said he’d swing by on patrol at odd hours. Ms. Kline from CPS scheduled a home visit the morning before the hearing to check on Naomi and review school plans; Naomi had picked up a packet from the counselor, drawings smudging the edges where she carried it too tight.
For one breath-long stretch, the world felt like it might tilt our way.
Then the texts started.
Unknown: Nobody wants her. Not really. Court won’t save you.
Unknown: You’ll be back on that bike alone, hero.
Unknown: Dogs die.
I didn’t show Naomi. She saw my jaw anyway. “It’s him,” she said. Not a question.
“Maybe. Maybe one of his boys. Doesn’t matter. We’re not moving.”
She looked me dead in the eyes. “I’m not running anymore.”
“That makes two of us.”
The day before the hearing, it poured. Texas rain, fat and sudden, bouncing off the porch like a fistfight. We spent it practicing. Carla put Naomi through questions soft and hard. Naomi told the truth out loud until the quiet in the room stopped flinching.
When the practice call with Marla came through, the line cracked and faded, like the past refusing to speak clearly. But the pieces were there: a nightgown ripped, a kitchen floor sticky with spilled beer, a pair of little shoes kicked under a couch while a mother hid with her kids until the headlights left the window. Marla’s voice shook when we asked if she’d say it again to a judge. “I will,” she said. “He followed me for two counties. I’m tired of running from one man’s anger.”
We hung up. Nobody talked for a long minute. The rain softened. Diesel snored.
Hank finally cleared his throat. “That there’s a revelation,” he said. “World’s full of ‘em if you don’t blink.”
We ate grilled cheese that didn’t burn this time. Naomi tucked one half into a bag for later. “For luck,” she said. She gave Diesel the corner and laughed when he pretended to be delicate about it and failed.
By ten, the house went quiet. I set my phone on the nightstand and left the ringer up. Checked the locks twice, then a third time, because history is a lender who charges interest. I told myself the lights and the camera and Hank’s porch lamp were enough. I told myself we’d made it to the edge of the cliff and now we just had to step across.
Sometime after midnight, Diesel got restless. He paced once, twice, then settled with a huff. The rain had quit. The world holds its breath when rain quits at night.
I must’ve drifted. A dream about a road with no end. A hand on my shoulder that wasn’t there.
When I woke, the room was the same shape but wrong. The wrong was small at first—just the way quiet sits. Then Diesel whined, low and confused.
Naomi’s door was open.
“Kid?” I kept my voice soft. No answer. The bed was made—too neat for sleep. The closet was empty. Her backpack was gone. On the pillow lay the folded half of the grilled cheese, untouched.
The back door was ajar, rain beads still clinging to the knob like sweat. My heart went hard and hollow. The porch light cut a small, useless circle in the dark. Outside, the mud held prints—small sneaker treads and bigger ones with a half-worn heel. A truck had pulled off the road into the ditch and backed out again, leaving a smear like a dirty fingerprint.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown: Come alone if you want the dog alive.
Another message, a second later—a photo, grainy, close: Diesel’s collar, the brass tag I’d hand-stamped years ago—DIESEL / IF I’M LOST, FIND REX—pinched between two filthy fingers. The background was black. The fingers were not mine.
Diesel pressed against my leg, confused, collar very much on his neck. I looked again. The photo wasn’t live. It was old—a picture taken earlier, maybe grabbed when they crashed the cabin, maybe lifted off the internet if someone had posted him once. It didn’t matter. The message did.
A third text: Larkspur Bridge. 3 a.m. No cops. No dog. No noise. She walks or the mutt bleeds first.
I checked the clock. 3:07.
On the coffee table, something else: a scrap from Naomi’s sketch pad, torn messy, graphite smearing the edge. She’d drawn Diesel’s face in eight quick lines and written one word underneath in handwriting that wobbled when she was scared.
Sorry.
I felt the floor tilt, the blade’s edge we’d been walking narrow to floss. Naomi had made a choice—the kind you make when you’re fourteen and you think you’re the only one who can stop the knife from falling.
“Dammit,” I breathed, to no one and everyone.
I grabbed my keys. Diesel leapt, ready, paw bandage be damned. I touched his head. “You don’t come,” I said, throat raw. “That’s the rule tonight.”
He whined like I’d told him the sun wasn’t coming back.
Headlights flashed on the far hill, then died. Somewhere, a cheap Chevy coughed and settled into a purr I’d heard on the shoulder of a dark highway once before. The trail cam’s tiny red eye winked at me from the pine, watching, recording, maybe catching a ghost.
I stepped into the doorframe and felt every scar I owned line up with the night.
Naomi was gone.
And the bridge was waiting.