Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Malerick Timberbridge doesn’t deal in paranoia.
Facts. Evidence. Patterns.
That’s what matters.
He pays attention to details—the ones most people ignore, the ones that mean the difference between walking away and never getting the chance.
It’s what made him a good FBI agent.
It’s what makes him a good sheriff.
But tonight?
Tonight, nothing lines up the way it should.
He presses his fingers to his temple, releasing a slow breath as the line rings.
Once.
Twice.
Then Finnegan Gil picks up, his voice laced with irritation.
“Isn’t it a little late for a social call? Or is there a problem?”
Malerick shifts the phone to his other ear, pacing the length of his office.
“You ever know me to call with good news?”
A pause.
A click. Then another voice filters in—Derek Farrow, sounding half-asleep and wholly unamused.
“We have a kid teething and a pregnant wife. Somebody better be dying, or you can figure it out yourself.”
Malerick stops by the window, looking out over Birchwood Springs.
The town is calm. Too calm.
The kind that doesn’t last.
He drags a hand over his jaw.
“Atlas. Something tells me you two have a connection.”
A low curse.
Then Finnegan exhales sharply.
Derek groans. “What’s the deal with Atlas? We have no direct ties to him.” The way he says direct lands somewhere between a dodge and an excuse.
Not quite an answer.
Malerick’s patience wears thin.
Working with these men sometimes feels like the biggest mistake of his career.
“What the fuck did your brother do, Sheriff?” Gil growls.
“I thought we agreed you’d keep him and the other one—the business guy—away.”
Malerick shakes his head, eyes flicking to the open file on his desk.
“He opened a tattoo parlor. I know it’s his, but I haven’t been able to dig up much. It’s a partnership between two companies, and I can’t figure out who owns it.”
Silence.
Then, “Fuck. Fuck,” one of them mutters.
“You Timberbridges are a pain in the ass.”
Malerick lets the moment settle before saying, “No, it’s not just another Timberbridge.” His grip tightens around the phone.
“It’s what might be coming.” He breathes through his frustration before adding, “Winston Reginald Worthington IV filed a missing persons report for his wife.”
Another pause.
Then Derek, usually the level-headed one, speaks first. “Tell me you’re not calling just to gossip, Sheriff.”
Malerick keeps his voice even.
“He didn’t just report her missing. He’s building a case. Claims she’s unstable. Paranoid. A danger to herself and others.”
Derek lets out a slow breath.
“Fuck. That means he’s setting up an involuntary hold. And if he gets it approved, she won’t just be buried in his house if he chooses. She could end up locked away somewhere he controls, or worse.”
Malerick presses a hand to the back of his neck.
“That’s what we believe.”
Gil exhales, voice edged with frustration.
“So why do we care?”
Malerick leans against his desk, gripping the edge.
“She’s going by the name Blythe.” He lets the name sink in before finishing, “Blythe Timberbridge. The town knows her as Atlas’s wife.” His voice drops.
“And the mother of their unborn child.”
Another pause.
Then Derek finally speaks.
“Fuck.”
Then, Finnegan’s voice lowers.
“And what does Atlas have to say about this?”
Malerick recaps his conversation with Atlas.
The ties with some undesirable organizations.
Ties he just confirmed with the system.
This man is bad news, and if they don’t control the situation, things can get out of control.
“It’s like you people can’t just . . . fuck. I bet it was fucking Sanford who planted Atlas in the town,” Gil mutters under his breath.
“Sanford, the operative that was here while Nysa and Hopper were in danger?” Malerick asks.
“Yeah, and I have to give him a call.” There’s noise in the background.
“No, actually, I’m going to visit him and scare the fuck out of him for . . . I need an explanation.”
And so did Malerick, who glances at the folder on his desk, the printed bulletin with Blythe’s old life staring back at him.
Not the woman he saw during dinner, but the version of her Winston curated.
The polished wife. The trophy.
The woman who, according to official records, is an unstable addict in need of supervision.
Bullshit.
And yet, Winston’s playing the long game.
“He’s desperate,” Malerick mutters, almost to himself.
“He won’t say it, but he knows this is bigger than just a runaway wife situation. Winston isn’t playing fair. In my experience, he could be setting traps.”
“Fuck.” Gil growls again.
“Men like Winston don’t play their own hands. He has a team. Money, influence, and most importantly—he has connections. He plans on getting his wife and destroying any evidence that she was anywhere but close to home. He’ll destroy any loose ends.”
Malerick knows that’s true.
Winston wouldn’t be walking into this town unless he’s ready for a war.
“I need to research more,” Malerick states.
Derek doesn’t hesitate.
“You don’t have to. Apparently, we already ran his financials last year, back when we were tracking some of the Miami Syndicate’s accounts. He doesn’t work for them. He has ties to them. Winston has at least three offshore accounts tied to shell companies that lead back . . . he’s tied to many, but the Hollow Syndicate too.”
“Are you telling me,” he says slowly, voice edged with something lethal, “that Winston is connected to the same people we’ve been trying to keep the fuck away from Birchwood Springs?”
Derek’s voice is flat.
“I’m saying he’s been in their pocket for years.”
Malerick closes his eyes, forcing himself to stay calm.
That changes everything.
Because it means this isn’t just about Atlas or Blythe anymore.
This could be another excuse to fuck up the town, his brothers.
And if Winston’s move puts them on the radar of another fucking syndicate, then everything they’ve worked toward—everything they’ve been building—is at risk.
Gil finally speaks. “We need to contain this. Now.”
Derek clicks his tongue.
“And that means we need a plan.”
Malerick lets out a slow breath.
“As I told Atlas, I can slow things down on my end. Buy us time. But that’s not going to be enough. Winston has money, power, and if he has the syndicates with him, he has muscle too.”
Gil’s voice darkens.
“Then we make sure his resources are cut.”
Derek hums in agreement.
“We’ll start small. Squeeze his resources before he even steps foot in this town.”
Malerick nods to himself, already running through the next steps in his head.
“I’ll make sure his case doesn’t hold weight here. If Winston tries to pull local law into this, I’ll bury it in red tape.”
“Good,” Finnegan says, his tone sharp.
“Because the last thing we need is some fucking Miami executive bringing heat down on us. We already have enough problems.”
Malerick stills.
Because of that?
That’s the real game, isn’t it?
Derek’s voice is quieter but no less serious.
“And Mal? Keep an eye on Atlas. He’s got instincts, but he’s rusty. If he doesn’t play this right, he’s going to get himself and her killed.”
Malerick lets out a dry chuckle.
“Yeah. Don’t I fucking know it.”
The call ends.
Malerick sets his phone down, staring at the screen.
Wait, did they say Atlas is rusty?
What the fuck does that mean?