CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
↳ trigger happy

THE DISTANT WAIL OF SIRENS GREW LOUDER, cutting through the tense silence. Ward turned toward the sound, relief flickering in his eyes as a police cruiser pulled onto the tarmac, its tires crunching against the gravel. The sheriff had arrived.

The car door opened, and Sheriff Peterkin stepped out with calm authority, her hand resting near her holstered weapon. Ward immediately straightened his suit, adopting the air of a man unfairly inconvenienced.

"Thank God you're here," Ward said smoothly, stepping forward with an exhale that was too practiced. "These kids have completely lost their minds. I've been trying to keep things calm, but they're out of control."

The sheriff raised a brow, her sharp eyes cutting to the group still standing near the plane. Before she could respond, Sarah seized the opportunity. She darted away from Ward, her movements quick and desperate, throwing herself into John B's arms. Hazel saw John B catch her, his hands gripping her tightly as though he was afraid to let go.

"I'm sorry," Sarah whispered, her voice shaking as tears streamed down her face. "I didn't know what to do."

"You're okay now," John B murmured, his voice low but fierce. "You're with us."

Peterkin's eyes narrowed as she turned back to Ward. "What exactly is going on here, Ward?"

Ward's practiced calm didn't falter. "It's a family matter, Sheriff. Nothing that concerns you. If you could just escort these kids off the premises—"

"I'm afraid it concerns me plenty," Peterkin interrupted, her voice hard. She took a step closer, the authority in her tone unshakable. "I know what you did, Ward. I'm here to arrest you for the murder of Big John Routledge."

Hazel's stomach clenched at Peterkin's words. The air felt charged, the weight of the moment pressing down like a storm about to break. Ward's mask slipped for just a moment, a flicker of panic darting across his face before the calm facade returned.

"That's a serious accusation," Ward said smoothly. "I'd be very careful if I were you."

Peterkin didn't flinch. "I have the evidence," she said coldly, her words sharp as a blade. "And I have a warrant for your arrest."

The weight of those words hung heavy in the air. For a moment, everything was still. Even the breeze seemed to die down, the world holding its breath.

Hazel's breath hitched, and suddenly, the world around her faded. Her chest tightened as a vision hit her with startling clarity.

She saw Rafe storming out of a car, his face twisted in desperation. His voice rang out—pleading, trembling—as he raised a gun. Her heart pounded as the vision shifted, fast and chaotic. The sharp crack of a gunshot, the weight of Peterkin hitting the ground, blood pooling beneath her. Hazel gasped sharply, her knees buckling.

Her mind snapped back to the present. "Rafe's coming," she murmured, barely audible. The dread clawed at her chest as she looked at John B. Her voice rose sharply. "He's almost here."

"What?" John B hissed, turning toward her, his brow furrowing in alarm.

As if on cue, screeching tires cut through the tense silence. A car jerked to a halt, its headlights cutting through the shadows, and Rafe stumbled out. His movements were sharp, his chest heaving as though he'd barely thought this through before acting. His face was pale, his jaw tight, and his darting eyes flicked between Ward and Peterkin, desperate and cornered.

"Rafe," Ward said sharply, his voice carrying a warning edge. "What are you doing here?"

Rafe ignored him. His gaze locked on Peterkin, his expression a storm of panic and determination. "You can't do this!" he shouted, his voice trembling. "You don't understand. He's not what you think."

Peterkin kept her stance calm, her eyes narrowing as she took him in. "Rafe," she said, her tone measured, "step aside. We can talk about this, but you need to put your hands where I can see them."

Ward's jaw tightened, his voice cutting through the rising tension. "Rafe. Get back in the car. This is not your problem."

But Rafe turned to his father, his voice cracking. "You said you'd fix it! You said it would be okay!" His eyes flicked to Hazel briefly, his voice softening just slightly. "You promised me."

Hazel's heart twisted at the raw emotion in his voice. Her mind flashed to the conversation they'd had in town just days ago—Rafe's quiet admission that he knew what his father was capable of. He hadn't said it outright, but it was in his eyes, in the weight of the words he didn't say.

And now, here he was, unraveling before them.

"Zel, don't," John B whispered, his hand gripping her arm tightly. His voice was low, urgent, filled with barely concealed fear.

"I have to," Hazel murmured, shaking him off. She stepped forward cautiously, her hands raised as her pulse thundered in her ears, her vision replaying the chaos from moments ago—the gun, the blood, the crushing inevitability of it all. 

Without warning, Rafe's hand darted behind his back, and Hazel's breath caught as she saw him pull out a gun, gripping it tightly in his shaking hands. The sight of it sent a fresh wave of dread rippling through her, her pulse hammering in her ears.

Her chest heaved as she stepped forward, her voice trembling but urgent. "Rafe, don't!" she called, her hand shooting out like it could physically stop him from spiraling. "Look at me."

Rafe turned his head sharply toward her, his wide eyes catching hers. For a moment, he wasn't the unpredictable, dangerous boy she feared he could become. He was the Rafe she used to know—the one who, for all his flaws, had once been her confidant in stolen moments and late-night conversations. The boy who had kissed her on a dare at a bonfire and lingered just a little too long, his vulnerability slipping through the cracks even then. The boy who'd once whispered, "I don't think anyone gets me like you do," before everything spiraled out of control.

"You don't have to do this," she said softly, her voice calm despite the tension hanging in the air. There was no edge, no command—just a plea, the rawness of it settling between them. "Please, Rafe. Just let Peterkin do her job."

His jaw tightened, his brows pulling together as if her words stung. "You don't get it!" he shouted, his hands twitching, the gun shaking slightly. "She's wrong. She doesn't know him like I do."

"No. But, I do," Hazel countered, her voice trembling but firm. "You told me. Remember? That day in town, when you said you knew what he was capable of. You knew, Rafe."

She paused, her breath catching as the memory surfaced between them—a conversation that had cut deeper than either of them had let on at the time. His words had been laced with pain then, and now, they felt like a warning she should've heeded sooner.

Rafe froze, the words hitting him like a physical blow. His lips parted, but no sound came out. His gaze flicked to Ward, searching for something—guidance, reassurance, anything. But Ward stood motionless, his face a mask of calculated indifference.

"What are you talking about?" Rafe asked finally, his voice breaking. "You don't know anything."

"Rafe listen to me," Hazel pressed, her voice rising slightly, the emotion spilling over and cracking at the edges. "He killed my dad, Rafe. Your dad killed my dad. He's been lying to you this whole time."

The words hung in the air, heavy and damning. For a split second, something raw and unguarded passed over Rafe's face—grief, doubt, guilt, all tangled together. He blinked, his expression wavering between disbelief and something deeper, something that looked like the cracks of realization beginning to form.

"You're lying," he said finally, but his voice was weak, almost pleading. "That's not true."

"It is," Hazel said, her voice breaking now, her own pain bleeding into her words. "You know me, Rafe. Would I lie to you? Deep down, you've always known. You've felt it—haven't you? You've just been too scared to admit it."

Her words struck something in him. The gun wavered in his grasp as his hands trembled violently. His shoulders sagged slightly, and for a fleeting moment, she thought she saw the boy she used to know—the one who had sat beside her on the dock late one summer night and confessed, in a rare moment of honesty, that he was afraid of what he was becoming.

Hazel took a cautious step closer, her heart pounding in her chest. She reached out, her hands outstretched like she could physically pull him back from the brink. "You don't have to be him," she said, her voice soft but resolute. "You're not Ward. You don't have to let him drag you down with him."

Rafe's gaze locked onto hers, and for a moment, it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of them. His lips parted as though he wanted to say something, to tell her that maybe, just maybe, she was right. That maybe there was a way out of the darkness that didn't end in violence.

But then, out of the corner of his eye, Rafe saw Ward shift, his body tensing as if ready to pounce. Hazel's words had clearly struck a chord, and Ward knew it—knew he was running out of escape options. Desperation flickered across his face, and for the first time, he looked less like the confident manipulator and more like a man on the brink of losing everything.

The realization broke whatever fragile thread Hazel had managed to weave between them.

Ward lunged toward Peterkin, his hand darting forward to knock her weapon down. Peterkin reacted instantly, stepping back and raising her gun to aim directly at him. As she moved, she extended an arm to pull Hazel slightly behind her, shielding the younger girl instinctively.

"Don't!" Rafe shouted, his voice cracking as panic surged through him. His eyes darted wildly between Hazel, Peterkin, and his father, and instinct took over. His finger tightened on the trigger.

"Rafe, no!" Hazel cried, her voice breaking as she reached out towards him as if she could stop what was about to happen.

But it was too late.

The gunshot tore through the night.

The sharp crack reverberated across the tarmac. Hazel felt the impact like a sledgehammer to her chest, the searing pain spreading instantly. Her legs gave out beneath her, and she hit the ground hard, gasping as the world spun around her.

John B's scream was raw and desperate as he dropped to her side. Somewhere in the distance, she heard Sarah's panicked sobs and the heavy thud of someone else hitting the ground. Through the haze, she caught a glimpse of Peterkin, lying crumpled just ahead of her, blood pooling beneath her.

Rafe stood frozen, the gun still shaking in his hands. His face was pale, his mouth open as though he couldn't believe what he'd done. "I didn't mean to," he stammered, his voice barely audible. "I didn't mean to..."

Hazel tried to reach for John B, to say something, but the words wouldn't come. Her vision blurred as darkness crept in at the edges. All she could think was, 'I failed. I couldn't stop him.' And the last thing she saw was Rafe's horrified face before everything went black.

* * *

i know yall are here for jj. but i am a strong believer in the fact that if rafe had had someone on his side from the beginning, someone to lead him away from the darkness, things might have been different. and i would really love to explore that with hazel. 

let me know what yall think!