Mal’s jaw ticced. Ledger had come back to town to deal with it, but that didn’t mean he intended to keep it. Most likely, he’d sell and be done with it—one less chain tying him to this place. Their mother’s legacy be damned.
“As you know, my brother is currently on his honeymoon,” he said, though he knew Gil had been the one flying them to Seattle. “An interim manager is overseeing things for now.”
Gil’s response was instant. “You can’t sell.” It wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order. “You hear me? That company needs to stay in the family until we wipe them out. Otherwise, we lose the upper hand.”
Malerick’s grip on the phone tightened, his knuckles paling.
“And Nysa?”
A pause. Then Finnegan sighed. “That’s where it gets complicated. From what you told us, she’s not just an innocent bystander. She saw them three years ago, didn’t she?”
Mal scraped a hand through his hair. “Yeah. She caught them burying a body. Heard them. She was damn lucky to get away.” His voice dropped, a raw edge creeping in. “But now she’s back. And she’s already getting threats.”
“We believed that the killers never left town,” Derek said. It wasn’t a question.
“No,” Mal confirmed. “And someone’s been using her land for years. That’s not coincidence. We’ll know how many when forensics come back with that information.”
Silence hummed over the line. Mal could almost hear the gears turning in their heads, the same way his had been since the first body surfaced. He’d spent years keeping his distance, staying out of things he had no business in, but this—this was personal.
The promise he made at his mother’s bedside when she was too weak to argue. Take care of your brothers, Mal. Love each other, be brothers, repeated in his head over and over.
The smart move would be getting them out of Birchwood Springs. But that wasn’t thinking with his head—it was thinking with his heart. And that could get all of them killed.
Finnegan broke the silence. “We’re sending another sweep team through both her property and your brother’s. We’ll assign agents to watch them closely, like we did with Ledger and his wife.”
Mal exhaled slowly, the tension coiling in his shoulders. “Nysa’s staying at her grandmother’s for now. Hopper’s moved into the family place. But if this runs deeper than we thought?—”
“It does.” Derek’s voice was firm. “And it’ll get worse before we get them.”
Malerick closed his eyes briefly, grounding himself.
“You can’t pull your family out now,” Derek continued. “If you do, they’ll know we’re onto them. You’re just the fucking sheriff, Timberbridge. Don’t forget that.”
Mal didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted back to the map, the threads of red string connecting places, people, histories tangled in something dark and calculated.
He knew his job. He had agreed to it. But he wasn’t about to sit back and watch his brothers die. It’s only two of them. As long as Kier and Atlas stayed away, he’d be . . . fine, or as fine as he could be trying to solve this fucking case and protecting his brothers.
He wasn’t going to let anyone else get caught in the crossfire.
Chapter Sixteen
Nysa
Not sleeping the night before because I was tending to a horse really took a toll on me. Or maybe it was the fact that I haven’t slept much at all since arriving in Birchwood Springs. Either way, the exhaustion felt bone-deep, pressing down on me as soon as I walked through my grandmother’s door.
Falling asleep as I lay in my bed was easy.
It reminded me of those times when my family and I would take road trips from North Carolina to visit my grandparents. We’d arrive late, tired from the drive, and my brother and I would barely make it through dinner before passing out in the guest room. It was the kind of sleep that comes after exhaustion breaks you down—deep, consuming, like surrendering to a place where nothing can reach you.
This time, I didn’t even make it through unpacking or dinner. I fell onto the bed and woke up the next morning at four, still clutching the silver-framed family portrait I’d found on the nightstand. Some days, like today, I miss them more than others. And some nights, I feel like they’re still here with me.
I sit up slowly, placing the frame back where it belongs. My room hasn’t changed much since I was a teenager. The walls are still a pale periwinkle, the quilt on the bed is the same one my grandmother sewed when I was fourteen. It’s made from old clothes from my parents and brother. Something warm to keep close to me at night. The bookshelf in the corner still holds my collection of worn-out paperbacks.
I tidy up the room because I don’t want to wake Grandma before her usual seven in the morning. She values her routine, and the last thing I want to do is throw her off, especially since she hasn’t been feeling well—or so she claimed. I still have to find out about her health. She better be . . . well, healthy. I want her healthy but if she tricked me, I’m going to be so mad—and annoyed at her.
At six-thirty, I’m in the shower, letting the hot water chase away the lingering grogginess. By seven, I’m in the kitchen, preparing an omelet and slicing bread for toast. The scent of butter melting in the skillet must have lured her in because her voice is soft but cheerful as she enters the room.
“Good morning, sweetie,” she greets me, her silver hair slightly mussed from sleep. She’s wearing a blue robe and her slippers shuffle softly on the floor. “I was wondering when you’d be ready to start the day. I’m glad you were able to rest, though.”
