Page 128 of The Last Call Home
Then I see his face.
Michael Timberbridge.
Desmond’s enforcer.His right hand.His fixer, his ghost, his executioner.And more than that—my fucking father.
I freeze.Not just from blood loss, not from fear, but from the way time collapses all at once.For a second, I’m not bleeding out in a dockside ambush—I’m eight years old, back in our old house.Knees pressed into the cold concrete, arms locked around a hunting rifle that’s too big for my frame.He’s behind me, his voice sharp enough to flay skin from bone, telling me to stop shaking, to hold steady, to “man the fuck up.”My muscles ached for days after.But I didn’t cry.I didn’t break.Even after he knocked the gun from my hands and slammed my ribs into the floor, I still stood up.I still made him look me in the eye.
Now here he is.Older, sure.Grayer at the temples, with lines deeper around his mouth.But the eyes ...they’re still cruel.They still watch me as if he’s disappointed I’m not dead yet.
He stops a few feet away, taking me in as if I’m a detail in a report.Then—he smiles.It’s cold, amused.The icy amusement digs into old scars.
“Didn’t expect you’d survive that hit,” he says, his voice the same as I remember—full of casual cruelty.No effort to hide it.As if killing me is just another chore, another box to tick.
It’d probably be a good idea to kill him before he goes after my brothers and their families.
“Guess I always underestimated how stubborn you were.”He says it with a light shrug, like my survival is an inconvenience, not a threat.Like he’s still in charge.
My fingers twitch toward the Glock at my hip, muscle memory kicking in, but the effort fizzles out almost immediately.My arm feels like it’s submerged in concrete.My joints won’t bend, my breath stutters in my chest, too shallow to be useful.My legs are refusing orders.Everything is slightly off—like I’m trying to move through water while the world around me’s moving at normal speed.
He steps closer.One hand rests casually on his belt, as if this is a business meeting.The other holds a silenced pistol low at his thigh—relaxed grip, practiced fingers.He’s not even trying to hide it.He’s not deciding if he’ll shoot me, only where.
Somehow, I’m not surprised he’ll be the one killing me.He’s been trying since I was a child.
The wind kicks up from the water, biting and cold, cutting through the layers of my clothes and slamming into the open wound at my side.It carries the scent of fish guts, rust, and gasoline.Somewhere out on the bay, something groans—a ship creaking against its mooring.A length of chain clinks softly in the distance.The world goes on.But here on this dock, with the boards shifting beneath me and the blood soaking through my shirt, time narrows to a pinpoint.
My father watches me like he’s already added my name to the list.Like he’s already seen the life drain from my eyes.And that’s when I realize I’m not afraid of him.
I’m fucking furious.
Because, of course it’s him.Of course it was always going to come down to this.The bastard who treated me like a punching bag.Of course he’d show up now, in the final act, thinking he could clean up the mess with one more body and disappear into the sunset like a fucking hero in his twisted story.And now that I’ve seen him, now that he’s here—I want nothing more than to find the strength to stand.To plant my feet and raise my gun and wipe that smug smile off his face with a bullet.
But I can’t.I can’t fucking do it to save my life—literally.So I let the anger burn.Let it sit in my chest like gunpowder waiting for a match.
“You should’ve stayed away, Malerick.”His voice slices into the stillness, it allowing me to hear the anger behind it.He’s pissed.“But no—you had to play sheriff.Had to pretend like you were something more than gutter trash.The fucking hero of Birchwood Springs.”
His eyes scanning the perimeter.Probably looking at the man who dragged Delilah away.
“You think the town’s yours?You think she’s yours?”
I don’t respond.I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction if I could.My jaw is locked.My muscles trembling.My vision is fading at the edges.
Then he spits.Right on me.The wet slap of it lands on my cheek.
“You’re nothing, bastard,” he snarls.“You were never anything but a failure.Just like your mother.Just like your brothers.Always dragging the Timberbridge name through the filth.”
Something inside me rips.Not pain.Not shame.Something deeper.A wire snapping under tension, years in the making.
“You want the truth?”He steps closer.Raises the gun.Points it at my face like he’s offering a handshake.“I never cared for you.Not once.You ruined everything the second you were born.My father—he thought marrying into the Smith family would solve his problems.Thought it’d bring in money.A proper alliance.They paid him.Not me.”
His mouth twists into something bitter.That’s what he wanted, my mother’s money?I recall the paperwork I found at my mother’s.Before my father died, there was an old will that stated all her assets would be put into a trust and distributed to her sons.My father would never touch a dime.Hence, he tortured us but never killed us.
“But I taught that bitch what it meant to be married to a Timberbridge,” he whispers.And then he laughs.A low, mirthless sound that echoes across the abandoned dock.“I’m still going to get my hands on everything she owned.I fucking earned it.”
The breath leaves me.
“You’re still afraid, aren’t you?”he sneers.“Still shaking like a little boy who wants to be loved by his father.”He steps closer, slowly, drinking in the sight of me as if he’s already carving the memory into a victory speech.“Same as when you were a kid—pathetic and wide-eyed, flinching before the first hit even landed ...”
I tune him out, grit my teeth, and force my fingers to move.Just a little more.Just one more inch toward the Glock at my side.My vision’s swimming.Breath coming in short, ragged bursts.But the rage is louder than the pain.I just need one good shot.One clean aim to wipe that smirk off his goddamn face and make sure he never lays a hand on anyone I love again.
