Page 46 of Midnight Between Us (The Timberbridge Brothers #4)

Chapter Forty-One

Keir

I watch as Simone’s car disappears down the gravel road, dust kicking up behind her like smoke after an explosion. A part of me wonders if she’ll just keep going. Leave town, change her number, forget all of this ever happened.

Honestly, I wouldn’t blame her. I’ve wanted to run more times than I can count. But here I am. Stuck. Not by choice exactly, with my battered body and the fact that my brothers are tangled in . . . I still don’t understand exactly the issue with the Syndicate. Can’t they just shove them in jail?

I rise from my seat, shove my hands into my pockets, and take a slow walk around the property.

The sun presses down, thick and humid, the kind of heat that makes your shirt cling and your patience burns off fast. The air smells of damp grass and dust, a mix of old earth and too many summers spent pretending this place doesn’t have a murky past.

I spot the sheriff’s cruiser rolling up the long drive.

It’s a bit off-putting not to see the old, rusted car I used to know.

This one is sleek black. An SUV with tinted windows and a shiny sign that reads ‘Birchwood Springs Sheriff.’ It’s weird how something so small punches a hole through the illusion that this town hasn’t changed.

As if time moved on without bothering to ask for permission.

Malerick steps out of the driver’s seat like he owns the place—because, in a way, he does. Sheriff’s badge on his chest, uniform crisp, as none of this touches him. He closes the door without looking my way, then starts walking toward me, easy and unbothered, like this is just another routine call.

It’s so fucking weird that my brother is the sheriff.

We used to be the ones riding in the back of the cruiser—bloody-knuckled, split lips, shirts torn and adrenaline high.

And yeah, before you start judging, we weren’t picking fights for sport.

We fought to protect. Ourselves. Each other.

Kids who didn’t have anyone else. It wasn’t pretty, but it was never pointless.

Now he’s the guy behind the wheel and wearing the badge. I might call this a case of going full circle.

“I’ve always thought that for a doctor’s house, this place doesn’t exactly scream low profile,” Malerick mutters, stepping close enough I can smell his aftershave—some woodsy thing that tries too hard. “Look at you. You don’t look like a dead man anymore.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Is this you trying to be funny?”

“I’m fucking hilarious, asshole.” He claps a hand against my shoulder—hard enough to sting but not enough to break one of my ribs.

“You fucking scared me. One minute, you’re ranting about selling the company, and the next?

I couldn’t get ahold of you. If Del’s coffee shop hadn’t blown up the next night . . .”

He trails off. It’s subtle, but I see it—his eyes narrow, his jaw goes still. Those gears in his head are turning, connecting something. I can almost hear the click as it slides into place.

“It was a fucking distraction,” he says, more to himself than to me. “They fucked with her to stop me.”

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He shakes his head. It’s more like an I-can’t-fucking-believe-it.

“I was going to check on you the next day. I told everyone I was off-duty, planned to swing by first thing. But then the café exploded and I couldn’t just leave Del and the town .

. . they knew. They fucking knew I wouldn’t move from Birchwood Springs and try to track you. ”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I ask, heart drumming faster now. Not from panic. From something else. A sick itch of knowing we’re circling something real.

He runs a hand through his hair. “It makes sense. They didn’t want me at your place. When I finally made it over, everything was upside down. Torn apart, as if someone was looking for something particular. Your laptop, your phone—gone.”

“Did you check under the boards?” I ask, low and flat, already knowing the answer.

He looks at me like I just kicked his dog. “Of your office? Yeah, like you told Atlas.”

“No, not just the office.” I step in, pulse picking up.

“My apartment. I backed up everything—emails, documents, encrypted notes in another computer. I stash it under the floorboards there, too. There might be some cash there—I know how much it is so they better bring me every single one of those bills.”

Malerick exhales hard and drags a hand down his face. “Fuck.”

He’s already reaching for his phone, muttering something under his breath about how Atlas is going to lose his shit because he doesn’t want to go to the city again. His fingers are flying across the screen, dialing.

“This is on me,” he says, pacing now. “I didn’t tell them about the apartment. I didn’t think—fuck, I should’ve known. You’ve always hidden things. Like a little paranoid raccoon.”

“Thanks for that,” I mutter.

“Shut up, I’m working.” Malerick waves me off like I’m an annoying intern who wandered into the ER for the drama. He’s already pacing, barking orders into his phone. “Yeah, we need a team to check his apartment. Pull up the floorboards—no, all of them.”

He stops, nods, then shakes his head like whoever’s on the other end just gave him the dumbest possible answer. “Well, we’ll need to figure it out and soon.” A pause, then a smirk aimed directly at me. “Sure, I’ll let him know he’s an asshole.”

“Who’s pissed at me now?”

“Atlas. You upset Simone.” Mal’s voice turns mocking, eyebrows rising as he gestures like he’s quoting Shakespeare. “And his woman had to leave his side—with their baby.” He snorts. “That man is whipped. I’ve seen it up close, but I can’t believe he’s a dad. Can you imagine being a father?”

I let out a dry laugh that tastes bitter. I don’t have to fucking imagine. I am a father. Apparently, I just fucked it all up so spectacularly that they couldn’t reach me and tell me.

Mal narrows his gaze at me, the teasing gone. “So, what did you do to Simone?”

“How do you know it was me?”

He shrugs. “Lilah got a text from her asking for wine, ice cream, and . . . I think she said baby snuggles. Then she kicked Cass and me out—from his house. She said the Timberbridge women didn’t need to deal with us.”

I cock an eyebrow. “Lilah?”

“Delilah.” He rolls his eyes.

I blink because what’s with the ‘Lilah’ and . . . “Is Del a Timberbridge woman now?”

Mal sighs, long and weary. “Not the time to unpack that. The point is, she’s pissed at you on Simone’s behalf. And since I figured you’d be temporarily unsupervised, I came to check on you.”

I gesture down at my leg. “Mind if we go inside? I’m not exactly built for dramatic standoffs on gravel right now.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He leads the way, holding the door open with an exaggerated flourish. “After you, old man.”

We settle into the living room. I sink into the couch and lean my head back, my body already aching like it’s fighting me for just existing.

“So?” Malerick settles across from me, his eyes fixed but not harsh. “You going to tell me what went down with you two?”

I stare at the ceiling for a beat too long, counting imperfections in the paint like they might offer answers. “You ever feel like you’re standing in the middle of a disaster zone . . . and somehow you’re the one who lit the match?”

Mal huffs, not quite a laugh. “You’re a Timberbridge. Setting things on fire’s kind of our specialty.”

He’s not wrong.

Our family legacy isn’t built on empire or fortune—it’s built on smoke and ash. We don’t just burn bridges. We set fire to the whole fucking road.

I let the silence stretch. My throat tightens, but not from emotion—not exactly. It’s more like my body’s trying to make room for something it doesn’t know how to hold. Like if I say it out loud, it becomes real. Permanent.

“She wrote me letters.” My voice comes out low, rough around the edges. I don’t look at him. Can’t. “Simone. From back then . . . when I left.”

Mal doesn’t say a word. Just sits there, waiting. No judgment. No pressure. Which somehow makes it worse.

“They were in a box,” I continue. “Hidden. Tied up like they mattered.”

I let out a dry, bitter laugh, one that tastes like old regrets and ash. “And they did. They fucking do. She wrote them when she was pregnant.”

Mal blinks. His head pulls back slightly like the air around us just shifted. “She was pregnant?”

I nod. Once. Then again. Then I scrub my face like I’m trying to erase it all. My skin feels hot under my palms. My lungs are tight. Not from panic. Just . . . from the fact that there’s no undoing any of this.

“She had a baby.” The words land somewhere between a confession and a collapse. “My baby.”

The silence stretches, but it’s not empty. It’s filled with the sound of my pulse, of Malerick, inhaling like he’s trying to catch up.

“I didn’t know,” I go on, each word duller than the last. “She was alone. And I wasn’t there. And now . . .” My hands drop to my lap, useless. “Now I don’t even know what the hell I am to either of them.”

That lands hard. Because it’s true, I’m too late. Twenty years too late for everything. I tell him everything I’ve learned today. The day she ran away, the shelter . . . everything.

“If I hadn’t left,” I finish the story. “But I couldn’t stay, Mal. I couldn’t stay another day.”

“You had to leave, Keir.” His voice is firm as if he’s trying to drag me out of a bad place and make me understand that I didn’t do anything wrong.

“The night you left . . . Mom called me. Said you were gone. Dad ended up in the hospital pretty banged up. It was bad, and I knew. I knew why you left.”

My mouth goes dry.

“I fucking knew,” he continues. “You were unraveling the way I did right before I . . . that’s what happens when you have too much rage bottled up. Too much silence. He fucked with your head—that’s what he does before he starts banging your body like a punching bag. It was just a matter of time.”

“I almost killed him,” I remind him as if that doesn’t get absolved as easily.

“He was proud of you, you know,” Malerick says with disgust. “He told Mom you finally had the guts to stand up to him. Called it a rite of passage to become a real man. You were a real Timberbridge.”

My stomach turns.

“You never told me that.”

“That doesn’t make you a man. And I’m glad you got the fuck out of here when you could. He was never going to stop,” Malerick adds. “Not until one of us ended up dead. And you? You got out. That was the only win we had.”

“But I left everyone else behind.” I left her. I don’t say it out loud.

“You didn’t have a choice. Same as I didn’t when I left. We all left each other behind, Keir. We had to. Our father didn’t raise us. He tried to bury us. One by one.”

The words settle into my bones like ash. And still, it’s not enough to silence the guilt. Nothing is.

We don’t talk for a long time after that.

“Why did you come back?” I have to ask. “I know you said it was a good job, but you had a better job in the Bureau.”

“This one is better. Believe me when I say that the pension has a lot of perks,” he states, and it doesn’t make sense.

“You mean they give you the cruiser when you retire?”

“Hell of a car.” He smirks, but it’s not convincing, and I’m starting to think that there’s a lot more about this job he hasn’t told me.

For now, it’s totally fine. I’m done with uncovering secrets for the day, maybe the week.

“I’m heading back to town,” he suddenly says. “It’s time for me to go to work. You should finish those letters.”

I nod.

“You okay?”

“No.”

He nods like that’s the answer he expected. “Good, that means you’re not lying. That’s progress.” He taps his temple. “You should try therapy. It might help you before you meet your child.”

He claps a hand on my shoulder. It lingers for a second. Then he’s gone.

The silence doesn’t feel so hollow this time. Just still. I sit a while longer, then push to my feet, my knee aching with every step. I make my way back to the library. Back to the box. The next envelope is waiting—unopened. Unread.

I owe her this.

All of it.