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

Instead, I remained in the duck-and-cover position, peeking out through my curtain of blond beach waves in time to see a man standing over me, his arms spread wide like a human shield.

In the silence that followed the command, I assessed the pile of orange shafts pooled around my heels and handbag. As I lifted my head, a lone one swung from the curled end of my hair like a fashion accessory gone horribly awry.

“Ma’am? Are you all right? I’m afraid you were caught in the crossfire of our final showdown. I apologize we didn’t detect you sooner—the nightshade goggles are a part of today’s challenge, a lesson in team building and communication.”

He reached a hand down for me.

Half blinded by my hair, I involuntarily accepted the same challenge as the residents to view my surroundings with obstructed vision. My gaze settled first on a bronzed wrist and climbed up a scarred forearm to land on a corded bicep tucked under the sleeve of a slate gray T-shirt. And then, finally, I saw him. My rescuer.

“Um . . .” I swallowed, blinked, and stared straight into the eyes of a much younger, much sexier version of Antonio Banderas. He was Zorro, but unmasked. If this man were an Instagram influencer, his dark eyes alone could sell any number of products. Ethan called this rare trait marketable presence. Zorro’s naturally toasted skin and raven hair glistened in a way that could put even my most reliable photo editing filter to shame.

“Ma’am?” Concern pinched his brow. “Are you . . . hurt?”

I took a breath and demanded all my brain cells back to order. “No, no, I’m okay.”

I straightened my dress on my hips, and his eyes followed the movement.

“I’m not sure your knees would say the same.”

I glanced at the thick smear of dirt and grass on my kneecaps and dusted them off, aware of the heavy scrutiny from the tree line. “Perhaps next time I take a walk outside the house, I’ll remember to grab my bulletproof vest.”

“Might not be a bad idea.” His eyes lingered on mine for a few beats more, before a muffled catcall and cough sailed through the air, causing our attention to shift from each other to the gathering crowd around us. Unsure of my role, I waved and offered a hearty, “Hello there, it’s so nice to meet you all.”

With weapons lowered to their sides and shaded goggles lifted, the mix of males and females met my greeting with mumbled hellos and perplexed expressions. By the locked-down stoicism shared by this group of barely adults, it was plain to see that this crowd was not the same smiling, joking, kumbaya-singing-around-a-campfire bunch I’d seen advertised on the lobby’s cork board. Not possible. Though The Bridge advertised themselves as a reputable program to aid young adults in their successful transition to adulthood, a few of these individuals looked to be a step closer to incarceration than independence.

“Again,” Zorro said, clearing his throat as if to cover up their obvious lack of enthusiasm and warmth, “we apologize for the mix-up. It’s not common we host many guests at the house during group time.” He reached down and lifted my nine-hundred-dollar purse off the damp grass and handed it to me. “I’m guessing you’re the new representative sent from SCC? Our house manager, Glo, usually holds our student advisory meetings in the joint office just past the dining hall. I can have one of our residents escort you if—”

“Oh no. I’m not from the community college. I’m here for the mentor interview with Mr. Whittaker. At eleven. I arrived a little early.” I smiled and shrugged. “Thus my detour outside.”

“You’re . . . Miles McKenzie’s sister?”

“Yes, that’s right. I’m Molly. You know my brother?”

“I do.” A hint of confusion crossed his features before he glanced down at his watch. “Would you please excuse me a moment?”

“Of course.”

He rotated to address the group. “Let’s take five, everyone. Diego, you can lead our wrap-up in the Plaid Room. Also, Wren, would you hang back a minute and kindly walk Ms. McKenzie to the lobby?”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not necessary. It wasn’t a far—”

But before I could finish the statement, his eyes were focused on me once again, or rather on my hair, as he gently removed a neon missile from my now tangled tresses. “It’s a safety protocol—for our guests, as well as for our residents.”

“Oh, of course. Sure.” But seriously, it wasn’t like they didn’t have security cameras lining every hall and doorway.

The residents moved like a swarm of bees across the grass, all except for a young woman with waist-length hair the color of wet pennies in sunlight, braided into an elaborate double Dutch plait. She slipped away from the mob and focused intently on the ground as she walked. Her voice was the faintest whisper as she passed me. “It’s this way.”

I felt obligated to follow the poor girl, even though I could literally see the French doors from where I stood.

“I’ll meet you in the lobby, Ms. McKenzie. At our scheduled appointment time,” the man at my side said with a distinct air of professionalism that snapped my earlier assumption wide open: Mr. Whittaker wasn’t a bearded Santa look-alike with a jolly grin and a rounded belly. Mr. Whittaker was Zorro.

“You’re the director?” I clarified, my voice a bit weaker than I’d intended.

“I am.” He held out his hand, and this time I shook it with a much different understanding. If I took this position, this man would be my supervisor. Which would be fine, of course, just not at all what I’d been expecting. An ongoing theme with this place, it seemed.

“Miles speaks highly of you,” I said.

“Your brother’s a respectable man.”

“He is.” A good sign of commonalities to come, I hoped. “I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me today.”

He responded with a simple nod.

Not everybody made the instant connection between my twin brother and me, but then again, if Mr. Whittaker had been expecting the female version