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

least for the moment. Silas didn’t seem the type to give up control often. Or easily. “The main house was originally built in 1897, but it has undergone several renovations.”

“And the cottages?” I hadn’t seen them from the parking lot or even from where I’d been standing in the courtyard, but the two modest cottage-style homes could be seen from the hall windows on the second floor. “Were those added to the property recently?”

“They were built five years ago when we acquired the house. They’re the sleeping quarters for our residents.”

I wanted to ask more about them. In truth, I could have asked a billion more questions about the house and all its rooms and passageways. I grew up reading Mimi’s hand-me-down historical romance novels in settings much like this—just one of our many bonds outside of our shared love for all things fashion. But it was becoming increasingly clear that Silas wasn’t interested in small talk. The atmosphere between us had cooled since his retrieval of me from the lobby, and though I hadn’t a clue as to why, I wasn’t about to sit down with him until I figured out the right angle to play.

I strayed from the desk, where a single manila folder waited, and pointed to the opulent bookshelves at the back of the pristine office. “May I?”

After a brief hesitation, he nodded. I brushed my fingertips along the tiny details engraved in the woodwork. Unlike the shelves in the lobby downstairs, these were filled to capacity. I studied his impeccable organization system, wondering at his chosen method of arrangement. There wasn’t a single book stacked haphazardly or laid on top of another. Each book had its own perfectly allotted space. Though I’d often prided myself on being an organizational freak . . . this was next level. I scanned the names of each author—not alphabetical and not grouped by genre, either. His diverse collection included biographies of world-famous leaders, books on teaching trades and social justice, and the random how-to guide. Unwilling to give up my quest, I took a step back and examined the whole picture again.

And then the answer was clear: The man had ordered his library by height and thickness of the spine. Interesting.

“You have quite the personal library,” I said, twisting around to reveal my sweetest of smiles, as if that action alone might thaw the iceberg that had encased Silas sometime between the courtyard and his study. The charming Zorro who’d used his body to shield me from my unintended assassination and plucked a bullet from my hair was long gone. This man, who assessed me like a knockoff handbag, was one-hundred-percent business.

Good thing I knew a thing or twelve about charming the hard to thaw.

“I spent many summers as a kid just twenty minutes or so from here at my grandmother’s house, but I never knew this road—or this manor—existed.” While there was no encouragement for me to continue, I did anyway. “To be honest, I expected something quite different when I pulled up the address this morning.”

“How so?” he asked evenly.

“I suppose I expected something a bit more institution-like. Bars on the windows and high-level security. Although Glo definitely surprised me at the front door with her talking hidden camera.”

“The Bridge isn’t a prison, Ms. McKenzie. Our goal is not to cage our residents inside, but to equip them as they transition to mature, contributing members of society in the outside world.”

Ah . . . so we were going with formality now.

Silas pulled out his desk chair, an obvious nonverbal that he was ready to get started with the interview since it was probably three whole minutes past eleven by now. I moved toward the chair opposite him and settled into the cushioned seat, crossing my legs and folding my hands in my lap. If he chose to be a crab apple, so be it. But little did he know that I’d held my own in many a business meeting run by power-driven men. I wasn’t easily intimidated.

“Yes, I understand that’s your mission, but the other government-subsidized transitional programs I read about online looked vastly different from this one.”

“We don’t aim to be like the majority of programs already in existence.” He leaned forward in his chair and set a hand on the folder, drawing my attention once again to the thick scar winding up his forearm. “We aim to be a home.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, which apparently was the wrong reaction by the way he hiked an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, it’s just that I don’t know many people who grew up in a place the size of this one.” Some of the celebrity parties I’d been invited to were held on private islands smaller than this place.

“The home life we hope to exemplify has less to do with the accommodations we provide at Fir Crest Manor and more to do with the faith-centered atmosphere we work to create—connection, care, community, conscientiousness.” He slid the folder toward him and opened it. I recognized the contents inside immediately: my fourteen-page application. By the handwritten notes in the margin, this was not his first time seeing it.

“A large part of that atmosphere,” he continued, “is dependent on the expertise and professionalism we strive to uphold here as a staff. The Bridge is a state-licensed facility for the sole purpose of referrals, and as such, our board receives a small percentage of federal funding each year. But our establishment is privately owned and operated in all the ways that matter. Our reputation in equipping young adults in critical life skills, interpersonal connection, conflict resolution, and stress management is unparalleled in our community and in much of the country.”

“That’s impressive. How long have the residents been in?” I immediately regretted the phrasing, realizing I’d once again managed to liken the young adults to prisoners.

“The majority here now have been with us for nearly a year. Our program usually follows the traditional school year from fall to summer, though a few have stayed on for a