Page 65 of The Last Call Home (The Timberbridge Brothers #5)

Chapter Sixty-One

Malerick

It’s been four weeks since everything unfolded.

The Hollow Syndicate is no longer a threat.

The town that once whispered our name like a curse now greets us in the streets like some kind of vindicated heroes.

Of course Rosalinda had to go and tell them how we returned to save the town.

My future mother-in-law knows how to twist a tale and sell it like it’s the best thing you’ve ever heard in your entire life.

The documents that CQS found in the lockbox—thanks to Lilah’s bracelet—burned the remaining members of the Syndicate who are still alive, and finally, finally, cleared Daniel Draven’s name.

Delilah’s father.

The man she spent her life grieving is no longer a ghost in her story. He’s part of her roots now. A very complicated part because he’s no hero, but no villain either. Daniel has lived in a gray area where he helping the FBI with things that can’t get done when you need to follow the law.

He’s now trying to earn his daughter’s love and Rosalinda’s forgiveness without directly asking for it.

Del is dealing with a lot.

Rosalinda hovers every day, refusing to stay more than six feet away from her unless someone physically drags her into another room—or she has to go home for the night.

An estranged father trying to give her space while also fumbling through fatherhood with all the grace of an intoxicated bull in a china shop.

And the aftershocks of the kidnapping. The bruises faded. But the tremors? They linger.

Some nights she wakes up screaming.

And every time she does, I want to dig up Desmond and kill the bastard all over again. Once for every scream. Every tear. Every moment she clutches my shirt like she’s still in the van about to be shipped offshore so we couldn’t find her.

She’s been going to therapy.

Actually, we—Cassian, Lilah, and I—have individual, couple’s, and family therapy. Turns out generational trauma doesn’t just poof into the sky because you kill the man who started it. There’s a lot we need to unpack before we earn our happy.

I personally complain that my partners still refuse to have sex with me just because I got shot. I flinch when I move too fast—so what? That doesn’t mean we need to live like monks. I have needs. They have hands. We could solve this if they stopped coddling me like I’m fucking breakable.

Sure, I might break but someone can patch me up before the second round.

In the end, we’re all a work in progress. But at least we made it to our first family dinner—as a couple.

Hop and Nysa are hosting. Their backyard is decorated with lights and mismatched long wooden tables. It’s imperfect, warm, and loud; it feels like something I didn’t realize I’d missed until I walked into it.

I’ve seen my brothers one-on-one—hospital visits, check-ins, the occasional text that just says “alive?”—but this? All of us in the same room?

It hasn’t happened since Keir came back from the rehab center.

We’ve all been busy. I’ve been healing. And somehow, we didn’t realize we were waiting for this.

“How are you feeling?” Keir asks, handing me a beer. He’s wearing jeans that hang too low on his hips and a Timberbridge Ranch tee ad if he didn’t almost die a few months ago. His scars look like they belong there now—worn in, not hidden. “You can drink, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, shrugging as I twist the cap. “I’m off the meds. Nothing stronger than ibuprofen these days.”

“But you’re still off duty?” Ledger asks as he drops into the chair next to me, legs sprawled like he owns the whole damn yard.

“They fired him,” Atlas says with a grin, tossing an almond into his mouth like he’s been waiting to tell that story.

“They didn’t fire me,” I argue. “Technically. It was a temporary contract. Meant to last until the Syndicate was taken down.”

“So, you became a fucking sheriff,” Keir mutters, nose wrinkling. “Why would you do that? You hated the sheriff when we were growing up.”

“It was necessary.” I take a long pull from the bottle and let it sit in my mouth before I swallow. “Just like Simone taking over the clinic. The town needed to believe we belonged here. It couldn’t look like an infiltration.”

“Water is necessary.” Hopper glares at me. “Becoming the sheriff is stupid.”

“I still think you lost your damn mind,” Ledger says, stretching his arms behind his head. “All that tactical training just to become Birchwood Springs’s finest for a few years.”

“At least it worked in our favor,” Atlas says quietly, eyes on the fire pit. “The town doesn’t look at us like we’re the enemy anymore.”

“Because of our women,” Hopper says, and they all look at me.

It’s true.

The town didn’t warm to us because of our charm. It was Nysa’s relentless work. Galeana’s philanthropic dedication. Simone’s healing touch work. Delilah’s bakery, which somehow started tasting like hope. Blythe’s quiet strength—the way she opened her home and heart even when hers was still mending.

“So . . . our father,” Atlas says. “He’s really gone?”

I nod slowly. “Yeah. I saw it. Cass shot him before he could finish what he started.”

There’s a beat of silence—just breath.

Then I reveal them everything. The truth I didn’t grasp until I nearly died for it. Why he hated us. Why the town loathed the Timberbridge name for decades. The fire. The silence. The deals. The disappearances. Our mother’s secrets and the way our father wore hate like a second skin.

We talk about it all.

“Do you think we’ll ever be normal?” Keir asks. There’s a tremble to it, buried under bravado, like he’s scared of the answer. “I mean, I’m going to therapy—still. But I feel like I fucked up everything I touch because no one taught me how to love myself.”

“You’re learning,” Atlas states. “In my opinion, you’re doing your best and normal is just an imaginary place where everything is perfect but no one can reach.”

Hopper shakes his head. “Perfect and normal are subjective to everyone’s vision. There are probably eight billion types of perfects and normals—and they’re just something we can’t reach because we’re too cruel with ourselves.”

“No,” Ledger says. “But I don’t think we need to be.”

“Fuck normal,” I add. “We made it out alive. That’s more than he ever gave us.”

“And we’re here,” Atlas says, lifting his bottle. “Together.”

Which is unbelievable after the life he had. Thankfully, we’re all working toward becoming a family and a better version of ourselves. One where it doesn’t matter where Atlas came from, he’s ours. It doesn’t matter how much our father tried to break us—we survived. We’re learing to love each other.

We raise our drinks, clink the bottles, and fall into easy laughter as the fire crackles beside us.

Across the yard, I spot Delilah on the porch swing. Simone sits beside her. Nysa laughs with Rosalinda near the grill. Cassian has Maddison lifted under the arms, twirling her like an airplane. She lets out a squeal loud enough to startle a few birds from the trees.

Blythe is rocking Everly, while Galeana rests in the hammock while rubbing her belly. She’s due any day now. Baby boy Timberbridge—they don’t have a name yet—is due soon.

For once, no one’s running. No one’s hiding. No one’s bleeding.

We’re a little bruised.

A little broken.

But finally—finally—we’re whole.