Page 58 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Fifty-Four

Delilah

There’s something about the stretch of highway between town and Simone’s place that never sits right with me.

It’s too lonely, too quiet. There are no streetlights, so obviously, it’s extremely dark at night.

It’s definitely eerie and creepy. So, creepy it makes your skin crawl.

The trees press in close, like they’re trying to block the view—or hide what’s watching from the other side.

Probably black bears or the occasional lynx.

Cell service drops out right around mile marker eight, and that’s when the road starts to feel less like a route and more like a setup for the next Stephen King book—coming to your screen next summer.

It’s not until you get to her house that everything is bright again. No wonder she has a big-ass fence and gates. Well that, and also, she’s hiding Keir. Anyone sees him and . . . well, I honestly don’t know what will happen.

We’re supposed to be sad and worried about his disappearance. Except her, since she used to hate him.

Maybe Keir’s presence is a good reason why I should turn the fuck around and head back home. It has nothing to do with my instincts screaming that something is not right.

Nope. That happens a lot when I come out here without my guys.

I should’ve brought them. I know better. But that would’ve killed the whole girls’ night out vibe—well, more like girls’ night in.

I don’t turn around.

Today feels like a good day to fake normal.

Which is ridiculous, considering normal has been extinct for what feels like fucking forever.

These days, normal looks like checking exits, watching my back, and pretending like my life isn’t one wrong move from going up in flames—again.

Especially after the bakery exploded.

It’s being rebuilt—brick by fucking brick—but that doesn’t mean I’m doing well. My therapist explained that PTSD can happen even when I wasn’t inside the bakery burning to a crisp. I suffered a loss. Not only material, but also a loss of security.

Of course, the fear doesn’t go away. It lives in my bloodstream now—coded in like a dormant virus waiting to flare. Perhaps next time, I won’t be so lucky. Maybe next time, they’ll finish what they started.

But tonight, I’m still breathing.

Still driving down this road.

Still trying to remember what it felt like before everything turned into ashes.

Maybe tonight is the night when it happens.

Simone texted earlier, saying she’s making mocktails and those spicy shrimp tacos she saw on social media.

Blythe, Gale, and Nysa are bringing appetizers and desserts.

Honestly, I think this whole thing is to cheer me up.

Everyone’s been tiptoeing around me as if I might shatter. And maybe I will. But not tonight.

Tonight, I want to pretend I’m just a girl, driving to her bestie’s house with a six-pack of sparkling rosé.

I crank the music louder. Indie and mournful lyrics pour through the speakers. The headlights slice through the darkness, sweeping across the asphalt and shoulder. There’re no cars behind me. None ahead. Just me, the road, and the pulse of night pressing in.

And then, suddenly something’s there—out of nowhere.

It’s blocking the road. It’s an unmoving shape. Maybe a broken car or . . . a big trunk? I slam the brakes. The car lurches, tires screaming against the pavement as if I’m skidding. My body whips forward, the seatbelt biting across my chest like a warning.

Breath—gone.

Heart—stuttering, off-rhythm and panicked.

The car skids sideways, and then jerks to a stop, its nose angled inches from—whatever the hell that is.

I grip the wheel, pulse pounding in my ears louder than the music.

Suddenly there’s a silence. My engine is dead and everything feels wrong. It’s almost as if the night is holding its breath so it can’t be noticed. It’s escaping from danger.

I notice there’s someone standing in the middle of the road. At first, I think it’s a deer. Then a kid. Then?—

“Shit!” I say, slamming on the brakes, eyes wide as I squint through the windshield.

Past the weird trunk or whatever that is, there’s a woman.

Dark hair hangs in tangled ropes down her back, soaked and clinging like it’s been raining everywhere but here.

Her frame is too thin, like something that’s been starved of warmth and sleep and light.

Barefoot—bare-fucking-foot—in the middle of nowhere, like she wandered out of a nightmare and forgot how to wake up.

She’s wearing a white nightgown, or what remains of it. It’s soaked through and torn in places, the fabric clinging to her skin as if trying to hold her together.

I flick on my brights, but she doesn’t flinch.

My hand hovers over the gear shift. I should back up. Call someone. I fumble for my phone, but the signal’s gone—no bars.

She raises her hand.

Not waving. Not calling for help.

Pointing.

At me.

My blood ices over.

I throw the car into reverse, but the world goes sideways.

Tires squeal. A van slams into my rear bumper, launching the car forward. My head jerks back, then forward, pain ringing in my skull like a struck bell.

“Fuck.”

The woman’s gone. I take off my bracelets, maybe they’ll know something happened to me if they’re here. Maybe . . . I grab my phone and press record just in case something appears, a clue. This isn’t good.

I’m reaching for the door when the passenger-side window shatters—glass raining across the seat like a grenade just went off.

A hand shoots through the opening, jerking the lock.

The door flies open.

“NO!” I scream, but it’s too late—he’s on me.

A man in black wearing a mask grabs my arm, dragging me half over the console.

“Get the fuck off me!” I thrash fiercely, kicking wildly. My foot slams into his ribs. He grunts but doesn’t let go.

Another figure appears, grabbing my other arm.

“Let go! LET GO OF ME!” My voice tears out of my throat, full of panic, full of rage. “Help! Somebody fucking help me!”

They’re pulling me now, dragging me out like I’m nothing more than cargo.

My nails catch on the edge of a mask. I rip at it, screaming into his face. “I swear to God, I’ll kill you! I’ll fucking kill you!”

“Careful, the boss wants her alive,” someone says.

My shoulder hits gravel. Gravel bites into my skin, and pain flares.

“Stop! STOP!” I twist, trying to get loose, kicking at anything I can reach. “Let me go! HELP!”

“Don’t you fucking touch me!” I scream again, louder, as a needle glints in the dark.

I thrash harder.

“Stop,” someone hisses. “You’ll bruise her.”

Hands clamp down. The needle slides in. My vision shatters into a million pieces becoming stars.

Then the darkness takes over and the muffled voices seem to disappear.

The world tilts. Blurs. Fades.

Then silence.

Nothing.