Chapter 45 Timothy
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Timothy
Raining again. Because of course it is.
Mitchell’s pacing like a caged bear beside me, muttering to himself about parking validation and how this office smells like lemon scented doom.
Freddie hasn’t said a word in twenty minutes, which is about eighteen minutes too long. The quiet from him isn’t peaceful, it’s loaded. Like standing next to a fuse that hasn’t been lit yet, but you know it’s coming.
I sip my coffee, which tastes like wet cardboard, and try not to fidget. The receptionist gives us a strained smile from behind her desk like we’re a pack of wolves trying not to chew the furniture.
Samara Ellis. That’s the lawyer. Friend of a friend. The kind of woman who wears pressed slacks and no bullshit like armor. Mitchell vouched for her. Said she doesn’t blink when things get ugly. Freddie needs that. So do we.
The door opens. “She’s ready for you.”
Here we go.
Samara’s office is what you’d expect. Warm toned wood, diplomas on the wall, a couple of potted plants that somehow aren’t dead. It’s supposed to be comforting. It’s not.
“Gentlemen,” she says, standing. “Come in.”
Freddie doesn’t bother with small talk. Just plants himself in front of her desk and says, “If Trina wants money, fine. I’ll pay. But I’m not buying silence. I’m buying freedom.”
Mitchell nods, folding his arms like he’s expecting a fight. He probably is.
Samara doesn’t flinch. “I’ve reviewed everything you sent me. She’s asking for a buy out. A lump sum plus recurring payments, no formal custody change. Just a verbal agreement she stays gone.”
Freddie’s jaw tightens. His fists are balled so hard his knuckles are ghost white.
“No deal,” he says. “Not a damn chance.”
“Didn’t think so,” she replies, flipping a page. “That’s why I drafted this.”
She slides a folder across the table. Inside, legal terms, fine print, strategy. I skim it, but I already know what it says. We’ve talked this out in the back room of the shop, over beers and burritos and long, ugly nights.
She gets a payout. One time. Generous, but final. In exchange, she signs away every legal right she’s got. Full, permanent custody to Freddie. No visitation. No second chances. No loopholes.
She takes the money and disappears. Or she walks away with nothing.
Mitchell blows out a breath, arms still crossed tight. Freddie doesn’t blink.
“Will it hold up?” he asks.
Samara nods. “If she signs it? Absolutely. It’s ironclad. She can’t come back a year from now with a sob story and a new lawyer. Once this is done, it’s done.”
“Good,” Freddie says. Voice of steel. “I want it done.”
Outside, the rain’s picked up again. Not pouring, just that slow, persistent kind that soaks through your hoodie if you stand still too long. We don’t move. Not right away.
“She’s gonna fight it,” Mitchell says after a beat. “Try to twist it. Make you the villain.”
“She already did that,” Freddie mutters. “This time, I get to be the one with the pen.”
I nod once. Not because I agree, though I do, but because I know what it’s costing him. Freddie’s not the kind of guy who likes drawing lines. But he’s doing it anyway. For Penny. For Ivy. For himself, even if he won’t admit it.
“You’re doing the right thing,” I say.
Freddie doesn’t look at me, but he hears it. I can tell. There’s a flicker in the set of his shoulders. A tiny shift. Maybe, for the first time in months, he can breathe.
Mitchell finally lets out a deep breath. “I need a sandwich and two Advil.”
“Yeah,” I say, heading toward the truck. “Freedom makes you hungry.”
“One thing at a time,” Freddie says, while texting furiously. “I want to get this sorted. Sooner rather than later…”
We don’t go with Freddie to talk. We go to stand.
Back him up. Hold the line if things spiral. Not that he asked, but that’s kind of the point. Freddie never asks. He just shoulders things until they crack.
The meeting spot is a generic chain coffee shop near the courthouse. Neutral ground. Public enough that Trina won’t throw a scene.
Hopefully.
She’s already there when we walk in, seated near the back, oversized sunglasses, half finished iced drink sweating on the table. Her smile stretches when she sees Freddie. Too wide. Too white.
Then she spots Mitchell and me and her smile dies on the vine.
Smart girl.
We hang back. Close enough to intervene if we need to, but not close enough to crowd. We blend into the wall, arms crossed, coffee in hand, two matching scowls with tattoos. Not exactly subtle, but subtle’s overrated.
Freddie sits down across from her. Slides the envelope across the table.
“This is it,” he says, voice flat. “Take the money. Sign the papers. Then leave.”
No apology. No explanation. Just the line, drawn and solid.
Trina picks up the envelope as if it’s radioactive. Opens it. Starts flipping through the paperwork with those manicured fingers, eyes narrowing the further she reads. She snorts.
“This is a joke, right?” she says, looking up at him. “You want me to be gone forever? You think this is enough for that?”
“It’s more than enough,” Freddie says, calm but sharp. “It’s final.”
She laughs, mean and bitter. “You think I’m gonna walk away from my daughter for this? What kind of monster do you think I am?”
“The kind who already did,” he says. “Three years ago. You don’t get to play mother now because there’s money involved.”
Her jaw tightens. “You don’t get to take her from me for basically nothing. I came back for a fresh start, to clear my debts… but if this is all you’re giving me…”
Freddie leans in slightly. Just enough to make it clear he’s not here to negotiate. “You already gave her up. I’m just making it legal.”
That lands. Hard.
Trina’s face goes tight, controlled, but I can see it, the crack in the mask. The twitch in her lip, the way her eyes go glossy before she blinks it away as if it doesn’t count.
“I want more,” she says, chin up. “Double this. Then I’ll go.”
“You erased yourself,” Freddie snaps. Voice of iron. “I don’t care if you want more. You get what’s offered. Take the check, sign the papers, and go back to whatever bar or boyfriend or scam you crawled out of.”
She bristles. “You think you’re the hero in all this? You’re not. You’re just a bitter asshole with a savior complex.”
Freddie smiles, but there’s no humor in it. “Maybe. But I’m the one she calls Dad.”
Silence drops between them, thick and mean. Trina looks down at the paperwork again. The check. Her mouth twists, it must taste bad.
And then… that flicker in her eyes. Calculation.
She hates it. Hates him. Hates this. But she hates being broke more.
She signs.
Quick. Cold. Barely glances at the pen before she presses it to the paper. The sound of it, pen on paper, is louder than it should be.
Freddie doesn’t even blink. Just sits there, spine straight, watching her trade away custody as if she’s signing a receipt.
She stands. Grabs the check. Doesn’t look at him again.
No goodbye. No last jab. Just the sound of her heels on cheap tile, getting quieter with every step.
Freddie watches the door for a long time after it closes.
It doesn’t feel like victory. It feels more cleaning up the last of a long, slow disaster.
We go for a drink, because what else do you do?
The bar’s mostly empty. Rain still coming down outside as if the sky’s got unfinished business. Freddie’s drink is whiskey, neat. Mine’s a beer. Mitchell orders something with tequila and will regret it.
We don’t toast. Just sit there in a row, waiting for the weight to hit.
Mitchell finally breaks the silence. “You okay?”
Freddie doesn’t answer right away. Then, “I thought I’d feel more… I don’t know. Relieved.”
“You are,” I say. “You just don’t recognize it yet.”
He nods once, eyes still on the amber in his glass. “Maybe.”
I think about Penny, her little rain boots by the door, the way she clings to Ivy’s leg when she’s sleepy, the crayon drawings taped to the fridge.
She’ll never know what it cost to keep her safe. And she shouldn’t have to.
That’s the point.
Mitchell raises his glass. “To terrible endings.”
Freddie huffs a laugh. “And better beginnings.”
We clink glasses.
Rain keeps falling.
But this time, something’s finally washed clean.