Page 30 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Cass:Are you awake?

Lilah:Nope. Totally asleep. Just texting you in my dreams.

Cass:You open late on Tuesdays. I figured even if the coffee shop doesn’t start until ten, you’re still up by three. I still don’t understand why you have to start so early.

Lilah:Baker’s hours. It’s a curse.

Cass:Your schedule is wild, baby. Ever think about changing it?

Lilah:Probably not. Someone has to bake before we open.

Cass:You could hire help.

Lilah:I could, but it’d be almost impossible. Mom doesn’t exactly trust anyone else. I’m lucky she lets me handle the croissants.

Cass:She doesn’t let go of things easily, huh? She seems . . . chill.

Lilah:Looks are deceiving. That’s actually one of the reasons I moved back. I almost opened my own bakery in Boston. But then she started saying weird things.

Cass:Weird like how?

Lilah:She said she saw my dad—several times.

Cass:Wait, as in he’s back in town?

Lilah:He died before I was born. So if he’s back, we’re talking ghosts or visions or something out of a paranormal book—or a Buffy the Vampire Slayer show.

Cass: I take that you don’t believe in ghosts, huh?

Lilah:Is that you being sarcastic or charming?

Cass:Was going for charming. Clearly failing.

Lilah:Not your best work.

Cass:Fair enough. You miss him? Your Dad?

Lilah:You can’t really miss someone you never had. I just feel the . . . absence, I guess. Did I yearn to have the typical Dad and Mom family . . . maybe while growing up? Sure. But now I’m fine. Anyway—what about you? Where’s your family?

Cass:Just me and my sister now.

Lilah:What happened to your parents?

Cass:They weren’t good together. Not even close. When I was eight, my dad shot my mom in the head. Claimed it was an accident. Said the gun just went off. She survived—but barely. A stroke followed, and her body gave up before I turned thirteen.

Cass:He didn’t go to jail. She wouldn’t press charges. Maybe she still loved him. Or maybe she was scared of what would happen if she didn’t play nice.

Cass:By the time she died, my sister was eighteen and off to college. I was left to fall through the cracks. My dad didn’t even show up to the hearing. Just claimed to be unfit to care for me and disappeared like I was paperwork he couldn’t be bothered to file.

Lilah:I’m sorry.

Cass:Yeah . . . but it carved out who I am now. The good, the bad, the control-freak tendencies. All of it.

Lilah:You’re not a control freak.

Cass:That’s because you haven’t seen my spice cabinet.

Lilah:Oh, no, are you one of those “alphabetize the oregano” types?

Cass:Oregano goes between nutmeg and paprika. Obviously. I have three types of paprika, because just the one isn’t enough.

Lilah:So you cook.

Cass:Yeah. I learned out of necessity more than passion.

Mom got sick, and there were days she couldn’t even sit up, let alone make dinner.

She’d walk me through what to do from the couch and I’d do my best not to burn the house down.

My sister was juggling classes and a part-time job.

So a lot fell on me. Dishes, bills, trying to keep the lights on.

Lilah:That’s a lot for a kid. I’m sorry you lost her.

Cass: Life’s a bastard sometimes. But then you get these flashes of beauty. Good people. Good days. You learn to hold onto those.

Lilah:I wish I could drive there and give you a hug.

Cass:Tempting. But if someone sees your car here at four in the morning when you don’t have to be, the town gossip mill would combust. I’ve been thinking of moving to the cabin. It’d make it easier to spend time with you and Mal without having to worry about the townies.

Lilah:Why don’t you?

Cass:It’s Malerick’s place. But also, I’ve got equipment here that helps me keep tabs on things—surveillance nodes, encrypted feeds, stuff the average nosy neighbor wouldn’t recognize. If something shady goes down in Birchwood Springs, I’ll know.

Lilah:Your job sounds cool.

Cass:It’s interesting. Sometimes it even feels a little Robin Hood-y.

Lilah:You steal from the rich?

Cass:(Laughs.) Not anymore. These days, I just expose the ones who think they’re untouchable.

But, yeah, when I was younger . . . I did what I had to.

There were times when we couldn’t afford food, and I figured out how to lift snacks from the corner store without getting caught.

Learned which houses had cameras, which ones didn’t.

I could spot a distracted tourist a block away.

While in foster care I did it so I could get something to eat or wear.

The places where I stayed didn’t provide much—if any.

Lilah:That sounds . . .

Cass:I’m not proud of it. But it taught me how to read people. How to sense tension in a room before a word’s spoken. How to slip in and out without leaving a trace. Turns out those skills transfer surprisingly well to surveillance and infiltration.

Lilah:So you went from picking pockets to protecting towns?

Cass:Something like that. I figured if I survived the worst parts of my childhood, I could at least use what I learned to help people now. Balance the scale a little.

Lilah:You surprise me, Cassian Harlan.

Cass:There’s nothing surprising about me.

Lilah:You’re being modest, go to sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow, maybe?

Cass: You’ll see me later today.