Page 133 of The Last Call Home
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.
