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

She waved away my concern. “It will take all of us working together at once, pushing and promoting from the new platform we create, but I think . . .” Val’s eyes twinkled in that brilliant way of hers. “I think a collective launch is our best chance at gaining traction once we have a finished product and a live donation link.”

I couldn’t help but feel a giddy sense of awe. “I’m pretty sure you’re the biggest answer to prayer we’ve had so far.” I wasn’t certain where Val stood on issues of faith, but her arrival wasn’t coincidental. I knew that much for sure.

As a now shirt-wearing Devon strummed his guitar from under a nearby apple tree, and Monica and Amy squabbled about who would get to say the coveted line, and Diego and friends fiddled with the camera equipment and lighting props, I made a sweeping gesture with my arm for Val. “Welcome to The Bridge, where all your finest recording and editing dreams are about to come true.”

Turned out, Val had been right about two things: First, nine-year-old Tucker had crashed hard at approximately 6:00 p.m. after his third slice of cheese pizza. And second, the collective launch strategy she’d researched was not only our most viable option, it had quickly become our best option. If we were going to get this thing off the ground to attract mad cash from kindhearted donors by the cut-off date, we had just hours to do so.

And by thing, I meant the video clip currently under the editing knife of none other than my former assistant. Val had been on her laptop since the moment she arrived. Her fingers were numb, her eyes red-rimmed, and whatever stiffness she had tried to pass off as minor had certainly increased as the hours ticked on. Yet somehow, just past the stroke of midnight, while Tucker slept in my guest room, Silas worked on a spreadsheet, and I set up a brand-new platform entitled The Heart of The Matter, Val clicked the green button at the bottom of her edit screen: Finalize.

“It’s ready,” she said softly, tugging off her headphones and stifling a yawn. “Want to see it? I got the final cut down to four minutes, forty-seven seconds. And, of course, we’ll have those five thirty-second teaser clips to share, too. I still have two more to finish up.”

“You can finish those up tomorrow, Val,” I said, stretching my neck side to side. “You need some sleep before the big day.”

She twisted in my dining room chair and offered me a humble smile as if she knew she’d lose that argument if she tried. Silas and I set our laptops down and moved to the table where Val had set up camp. Her light chestnut hair was twisted in a topknot I’d seen a hundred times during our on-screen chats, and something about the sight of it caused nostalgia and gratitude to mist my eyes. Having her and Tucker here had brought an extra layer of fullness to my home, to my life, and I had no desire to let go of either of them any time soon.

I reached for Silas’s strong hand as we stood behind Val’s chair. Her pointer finger hovered over the play button as if she, too, knew how critical this moment was for us all. Because it was. This was our last chance at securing the Murphey Grant for The Bridge and for dozens of waiting young adults with nowhere to go.

Silas rubbed his thumb over my knuckles, his anticipation intertwining with mine.

The instant Val tapped the keyboard and those first three haunting piano notes trilled, emotion swelled inside me. I hadn’t known the order Val would choose for the interview excerpts or even the stories she’d select for the main campaign video, but I trusted her creative instincts explicitly. This was her area to shine, her art, her brilliance. And it showed on every shot and on every perfectly captured expression. The way she played with time and focal points was astounding. Every spoken or typed word held impact for the viewer. I might have been the one to ask the questions and direct the residents while we recorded, but Val had woven all the random starts and stops into something profound and purposeful. We’d handed her a hope-filled idea, but she’d created a visual legacy.

Silent tears dripped off my chin as I listened to Diego retell his struggle with substance abuse and the months he’d spent in a cold car without a plan. And when Amy shared of running from her last group home, only to end up in a bad relationship with a man twice her age. And when Wren’s unblinking gaze had stared into the eye of the camera lens as she described the day her brother was taken away from her after the death of their mother.

Silas tucked me into his side as we continued to watch the heart-wrenching montage. After Wren finished speaking, her face faded into a panoramic shot of Fir Crest Manor. The music morphed from the chilling solo notes of a lonely piano to the warmth and richness of a connected symphony. The footage we’d taken of the house, of the grounds and property, of the residents smiling and laughing outdoors while holding up their testimonial signs against a bright tangerine skyline, had been expertly spliced and arranged.

Silas had once described the moment he’d received the official approval to acquire Fir Crest Manor as the permanent location for The Bridge as a miracle. His word choice had stood out in my mind for weeks. Because Silas didn’t inflate truth. He didn’t speak in hyperbole. His vocabulary was as thoughtful as it was careful.

But now, seeing all the pieces come together in one place, enriched by color and sound and emotion, I understood. Each face represented a life transformed by a vision far bigger than anything Silas could have hoped for on