All That Really Matters, Nicole Deese [best detective novels of all time .TXT] 📗

curiosity seemed to climb. “We’ve been needing some fresh faces for mentoring around here for a while now.”

“How many are there? Mentors, I mean.”

“We try to keep a rotation of three to five, since not every girl bonds with the same mentor. But for various reasons, we’re down to only two ladies this summer. And one is getting fairly close to delivering her first baby.”

“Oh . . . well, I can see how that might pose an issue.” I was just about to ask how many young adults called The Bridge their home when an alarm on her digital watch beeped.

“Ah, that’s my meeting reminder. We have a new community college rep headed here in a minute, an advisor to help the kids get squared away with summer credit options. I need to get a few things set up for her arrival.” She slowly began her retreat down a corridor I couldn’t see the end of. “You have about fifteen minutes to kill before your interview time, but Silas will take you to his office for the interview as soon as he wraps up the morning session. Feel free to help yourself to the water cooler over there, or we have some drip coffee on the table in the back corner . . . but between you and me, I’d stick to the filtered water.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I said. “And I’m perfectly fine to wait for him while you see to your other tasks. It was good to meet you.”

“You too.” And then Glo stopped and twisted back, a huge grin on her face. “Kitten heels, huh?”

“You should really give them a try,” I called out after her. “You just might love them.”

Her wheezy laugh echoed down the corridor, then faded quickly, leaving me with nothing but the sound of my own breathing for company. I scrunched my lips together. Fifteen minutes until the interview—the perfect amount of time to do a little exploring to better acquaint myself with this place and its inhabitants. Though I typically used any wait time in my day to check in with Val or compare my last live video stats with other trending fashion videos on Instagram and YouTube, this gigantic house was much too fascinating for me to ignore.

It made me miss my Mimi something fierce. She would have loved this place.

With quiet footsteps, I trailed past a set of worn fabric couches and a twin pair of built-in bookshelves—but apart from a handful of plaques featuring businesses and organizations around town, most of the shelves were empty. A shame, really. They were practically begging for books.

Though the custom carpentry of the manor was stunning, the chosen furnishings fell short of its grandeur by a mile. How had The Bridge purchased such a magnificent property?

My intrigue soared as I reached a cork board hanging on a back wall, displaying an open brochure of colorful pictures mounted by a thumbtack. Something tugged in my chest as I skimmed over some of the faces I’d seen on the internet. All young adults varying in size and shape, skin color and gender. An older man with a Santa-type beard and a plaid shirt posed in the bottom left corner, his arm slung around an African-American boy. Oddly enough, the jolly-looking lumberjack was exactly who I’d pictured Mr. Whittaker to be. A gentle soul with friendly eyes and a relaxed demeanor, as if there wasn’t an issue in the world that a few corny jokes couldn’t solve. No wonder Miles liked the guy so much. Nobody disliked Santa.

I scanned the rest of the candid shots, wondering about the stories of each. The mission statement on the website for The Bridge said, “We are a program dedicated to co-partnering with youth ages 18–21 as they make a successful transition into independent living through life skills classes, mentorship, and spiritual guidance.” Did these young people have families they were still connected to? From what I’d read online and gathered from my brief conversations with Miles, many of the residents here had lived through difficult life situations, growing up in foster care or group home environments as teenagers.

Something pinged against the large window beside me, pulling me out of my spinning thoughts. I shifted the curtains back and split the blinds apart, catching a glimpse of a group of people wearing sweatshirts, goggles, and multicolored beanies, all of them darting in and out of the forest beyond my vantage point. I moved down the hallway, glancing out each window, until I reached a set of French doors. Stepping onto a patio that led to a cobblestone path, I quickened my steps toward the lush lawn area and then farther still to the edge of a thick forest of pine trees.

I strained to hear something other than the whistle of wind through pine needles or a random bird call. Strangely, there was nothing. No sound and no people scurrying about like I’d seen from inside. Disappointed I’d missed all the excitement, I turned back to the Clue Mansion.

“There they are! Go! Go! Go! Attack!”

A rush of voices paired with pounding footsteps charged at me from every direction. I didn’t have time to distinguish the type of projectiles that two groups on either side of me were shooting, but it was clear the instant a round of neon darts pelted my upper back that I’d stumbled into a wrong-time-wrong-place scenario. I threw my purse to the ground and crouched low, covering my head and yelping each time a rubber-tipped dart peppered my torso, backside, and legs. Holy heavens, how was it possible for foam to hurt this badly? Wasn’t foam used in pillows and mattresses and other comfort items? Certainly not this brand of foam. Ouch! I flinched as one death missile after another pinged off my limbs.

“Cease fire! Cease fire!” A masculine voice cut through the chaos, followed by a quick succession of footsteps.

I had the strangest desire to raise my hands above my head and plead not guilty as the attack finally halted.