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

of me, his concerned eyes searching mine. “You realize that adrenaline and caffeine aren’t a replacement strategy for sleep, right?”

“They’ll have to be for tonight,” I said as cheerily as possible. “We still have lots of ground to cover.”

“Molly.” He paused, exhaled. “Whatever happens tonight, I need you to know that I think you’ve done a—”

“No.” I shook my head, cutting him off. “Please don’t finish that. There will be no silver medals awarded for good participation. We’re in this for gold, Silas. We’re in this for the matching Murphey Grant and for the trustees’ approval on a million-dollar expansion plan that will give a home to the kids who need it most. That’s what we’re fighting for, not a penny less. Please don’t give up. Because I need you.” It was hard enough to hide my fear from the kids, but I didn’t want to hide from Silas. I needed him with me.

The doubt that lurked behind his beautiful dark eyes shifted into something far more pliable. Something I could work with. Because giving up wasn’t an option.

“Do you know what time it is?” I asked.

“Eleven fifteen on the eve of August thirty-first,” he said without missing a beat.

I swallowed back the creeping fear of a deadline that felt far too close. “Sounds like the perfect time for a miracle.”

40

Silas

“Sounds like the perfect time for a miracle.” Molly’s words had been a shield against my doubts throughout the course of the night. Though I was a realist, she didn’t need to be reminded of the deficit we fought as the hours ticked by. She needed a partner. She needed a hand to hold when her glass-full optimism sprung a leak.

Which, unfortunately, would be all too soon.

Sometime after six in the morning, as sunrise cut through the gaps in the blinds, my eyes cracked open for the first time in hours. Fifteen sleeping bodies were scattered in impossible positions around a room littered with pillows and blankets. My residents and staff who’d volunteered to hold an overnight campaign vigil in the fireside room—posting, commenting, sharing, and the like—had traded in the stiff metal chairs for sofas, recliners, and even the floor.

Though I hadn’t slept soundly, or for longer than a few hours, my body was used to this time of day. It was used to the golden wash of a sun that had been commanded to rise no matter what had occurred the night before. Or, in our case, what hadn’t occurred.

I didn’t need to look at the final count to know the goal hadn’t been reached, yet I did anyway. The red train had stalled out at three hundred twenty-two thousand, nine hundred and eight dollars. An incredible sum of money. A mountain in comparison to the molehill we’d started with. And yet . . . it wouldn’t be enough to qualify for the Murphey Grant. Which meant it wasn’t enough for the trustee board to approve a building project we couldn’t afford.

I sighed, taking a moment to get my thoughts together. To be grateful for all the efforts made here yesterday and through the night. Even still, there was nothing I could do to prevent the dominoes from falling now.

We’d save every donation that came in by generous people, and we’d do everything we could to tighten our current budget . . . but without the matching grant, the possibility of an expansion plan would be years away.

I stood and stretched from my spot on the back wall, where I’d dozed on and off through the course of the night. Scanning the floor, I stepped over Devon and Tyler and the dueling guitars that had strummed song after song. My gaze stalled on the L-shaped sofa where Monica, Wren, and Amy had parked themselves for the night in odd angles. It was the same leather sofa that had been delivered to our lobby in early June without a name or a return address.

Donated by the same woman who was responsible for getting us sixty-two percent of the way to our funding goal.

Under a blanket, which looked as ragtag as the ottoman she used to prop her head on, slept the most tenacious woman I’d ever known. I’d been a fool to doubt the grit she possessed, because Molly McKenzie had grit. Enough to fight for a group of people who were rarely given the tools to fight for themselves.

Gingerly, I lowered myself to the floor and leaned my back against the ottoman beside her, closing the lid of her laptop to push it aside. The least I could do was protect her dreams while she slept. Though I knew exactly what she’d say if she were awake: “We still have an hour left, Silas. You should have woken me!”

But one hour or one day or even one week wouldn’t matter if the timing wasn’t right. And maybe that was the piece of the equation that had been off from the start. The timing. Had I rushed it? Had I heard wrong? Had I taken a leap when I’d only been meant to take a step?

“Hey, Duke of Fir Crest.” Her sleepy voice shifted my eyes back to hers. She squinted against the light spilling over her delicate features. A sight I hoped to remember long after this moment passed. “You’re awake?”

My laugh was no more than a rumble in my chest as I reached out to stroke her hair, her cheek. “It would appear you are, too.”

She yawned and groggily rubbed at her eyes. The movement was slow and so unlike the hyperspeed she’d been operating at these last few days. She’d taken on my vision for this house, for these kids, for the brokenness in our world as if it had been her lifelong mission, as well. As if it were the only thing that ever mattered to her.

That thought, as well as so many others having to do with Molly, had me contemplating a timeline of an entirely different variety.

But first, I needed to address what she would be asking