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

I could feel the smile welling up inside me. If there was ever a question etched in the sky with my name on it, this was it. And I’d spend the rest of my classroom time giving them every tip and trick I knew. Right after I took each of their pictures and let them play with my Try It On fashion app.

I’d definitely be leaving a glowing review for the creators of Try It On after this evening. Because if the approval I saw on Silas’s face was any indication, I’d say it just landed me a summer position at The Bridge. And quite possibly a giant step up in my audition résumé.

12

Silas

We’d had all types of individuals teach life skills classes at The Bridge over the last few years—mechanics teaching car basics, mothers demonstrating easy meal prep, financial advisors showing budget management. And many topical classes on conflict resolution, maintaining safe boundaries, and the pressure of dealing with negative influences. Never had I seen the level of engagement Molly had coaxed from a room of co-ed young adults.

She was magnetic.

Within thirty seconds of beginning, she’d captured the attention of everyone in the room, especially the male students in our program. And it was clear it wasn’t just her laptop presentation they were interested in. Unfortunately, a several-year age gap didn’t mean much when it came to an attractive member of the opposite sex. And whether I wanted to admit it or not, Molly’s physical appearance was anything but unappealing. She was, in fact, as exquisite as her thick golden hair that swung to the center of her back.

As the students high-fived Molly on their way out and asked when she would be back and what she would be teaching next, I watched Wren inch her way toward the front of the room. Likely waiting until the others had exited.

I worried about that girl. Even more than I worried over the majority. Molly hadn’t been wrong about her during the interview. Wren was intelligent, bright in a way that surpassed many of her peers, but she was also a loner. And while I believed there were natural introverts who refueled independently, I also believed Wren’s tendency to stick to herself was less about personality and more about an isolated grief she didn’t know how to share.

In many ways, I understood that. Which was, perhaps, why I’d accepted her mid-program instead of adding her to the wait list for the coming fall. There hadn’t been a vacancy when the social worker called last December. But when I hung up the phone that evening, I knew I would pay out of my own pocket to bring her to Fir Crest Manor if I had to. Wren’s backstory wasn’t the most dramatic account I’d heard in my line of work—no reports of criminal activity, physical abuse, or illegal substances. But there certainly had been trauma, nonetheless. Losing a parent was traumatic no matter what the circumstance or age of the child. But something about a grieving nineteen-year-old being separated from her much younger, adoptable brother was too much for me to walk away from.

I’d been there once, too. Not as the grieving teenager, desperate to keep his family together by any means necessary, but as the adoptable younger sibling who had wanted nothing more than to stay with the only living family member he had left. A hope never to be realized.

The minute Molly finished passing out her Five Tips to Selecting a Winning Outfit handouts, Wren approached.

“Hey, girl,” Molly practically sang. “Thanks for your participation tonight. I appreciated your answers.”

Wren’s entire countenance changed. A noticeable difference. Even from where I stood near the back of the room. “I liked your class.”

“And I liked that you came. Even though I know you kinda had to,” Molly said in a conspiratorial way that caused Wren’s mouth to curve into a half grin. It was the best attempt at a smile I’d seen from her in . . . well, since the last time she had a visit with her brother.

It was obvious why Molly might appeal to Wren; Molly was the type of person people wanted on their team. The kind of advocate a young, impressionable girl would give anything to have believe in her. The two of them were an ironic blend of opposites, to be sure. Where Wren was timid and owned little of earthly value, Molly was enthusiastic, and based on her personal belongings, lacked for nothing. Even still, the common ground between them was notable, as was the absence of Wren’s usual monosyllabic responses in conversation.

“Will you be back next Tuesday?” Wren asked, to which Molly’s eyes flickered to mine before she simply said, “I sure hope so.”

Last week I’d doubted Molly had even the smallest potential at relatability. I’d suspected our young ladies would feel too threatened by her high-dollar lifestyle and stylish clothing to engage deeper with her. I’d even questioned if Molly would be able to engage with them. But in the same way I’d chosen to believe my residents were more than the scars they wore from their pasts, I was also starting to believe that Molly was more than the flashy fairy tale she presented to the world. It was a revelation at odds with a sense of caution I still couldn’t shake.

As Wren said good-bye and ducked out the door to the hallway, Molly glided over to her laptop and began fiddling with cords as if she’d forgotten all about my presence in the room.

“I’m curious,” I said, unwilling to play her game, “how often do you use that digital dressing room?”

Molly made one of those humming sounds in her throat as if my interruption had pulled her out of a deeply meditative state. Hardly. “That was the first.”

“As in, you’d never used it before tonight?”

A slight know-it-all smile emerged on her mouth. And I had just started to like