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

“Is there a problem?”

“No,” she said, but I waited for a follow-up response, because her face indicated her answer was only a precursor to many more words to come. Three taps of her pen later, my intuition proved correct.

“I can understand the reasons you don’t want social media used on the premises,” she said, “especially for the privacy protection issues you’ve mentioned before. And I can also respect that you don’t want The Bridge’s location tagged or mapped.” She paused, and I braced for impact. “But it’s not all bad—social media, I mean. I actually think it could do a world of good for a place like this, if used responsibly, of course. There are people searching for a humanitarian cause just like this one to partner with.” She pulled in her bottom lip, and I redirected my gaze to the blank signature line once more. To my surprise, she signed her name, swooping the arches on each M even more dramatically than on the earlier pages. “I’ll abide by these rules, Silas, but I’d also like to show you some of the positive aspects that having a social media presence can offer.”

“You do realize you haven’t even had your first mentor meeting yet?”

“Yes.”

“And that you’re suggesting I change a rule I’ve never once compromised on for any of the residents who have come begging me to reconsider it for one reason or another.”

“Again, yes. But I’m not asking for the policy to be changed entirely, just adapted a wee bit.”

I doubted Molly’s idea of a wee bit was anything close to mine. I sighed through my nose and rubbed at my temples. The ink had barely finished drying, and I was already feeling a stress headache coming on.

“I won’t change my mind on this policy.”

“Okay,” she said. But once again, I could tell that particular okay was only the start of something, not the ending of it. I was just beginning to learn the tiny nuances and fluctuations in her tone. Much of what Molly said or did seemed to hold a broader meaning.

She slid the documents toward me and stood, planting her cheetah heels deep into the carpet fibers. “So what are you taking me to see first? I’ve been dying to have a look around this place.”

I was absolutely certain that was true. Molly seemed the type of person who would open every private drawer and cabinet in a guest bathroom and then inform the host of an expiring prescription. She was anything but subtle.

“First I’d like to drop this signed paperwork off in my office.”

“Perfect.” She hesitated in the open doorway, then looked both ways as if the hallway were a busy interstate.

“Take a left,” I instructed.

She laughed. And something about the lightness of it caused me to do the same.

13

Molly

I was on such a high when I left The Bridge that instead of heading home, I drove to the only other place I possessed a key to: my brother’s house. Miles lived in a could-be-quite-charming-if-he-tried ranch home nestled on the Idaho side of the Washington State border. As a unique bonus, the house had an attached-yet-separate upstairs apartment he used like an investment property to support his multiple trips abroad. After all, paying off seminary and a mortgage while living on a pastor’s salary hadn’t left a ton of wiggle room in his budget. His current upstairs renter was a college student who had asked to stay through the summer to be closer to his girlfriend—a concept that was completely lost on my brother, seeing as he hadn’t had a date in, well . . . I couldn’t even remember how long.

But I rarely complained about his stark lack of decor or how a fresh coat of paint—or five—would make a huge difference to the entire mood of his diamond-in-the-rough home, because the only thing that really mattered to me about his house was where it was located. He might love to travel the world and be a superhero a few months out of the year, but Miles always came back. His home was here, near mine. Which was the exact reason I had declined Ethan’s many invitations to move to Seattle near him. I just couldn’t.

No matter how frustrating my differences with Miles were at times, I knew I couldn’t ever leave him . . . the same way Miles knew he couldn’t ever leave me. He was my twin, but in many ways, he was the only family I really had.

I banged on his door, giving him the option to invite me inside before I reminded him of the key I refused to return. As soon as he twisted the deadbolt, a rush of anticipation had me lifting the grocery bag in the air with a smile.

“Hi, I brought snacks!” Likely Miles’s favorite phrase ever spoken.

He gestured to the phone pressed to his ear and waved me inside. I gave him a thumbs-up and headed to his sparse, but mostly clean, kitchen. I’d learned over the years that if I planned to make a meal at Miles’s house, I needed to provide more than just the basic ingredients for the recipe itself—which meant all necessary spices, sauces, and cooking utensils. Reason enough to eat at my place.

I set out the Raisinets. Whose favorite junk food included raisins? My brother’s, naturally. Then I carefully opened a bag of his coveted Flamin’ Hot Crunchy Cheetos while listening for any clue to whom he might be talking to in such hushed tones. Hopefully not our parents. It was no secret they called him five times more often than they called me; then again, they did have five times more in common with him.

“. . . yes, okay. Sure, I’ll be there. You too. Thanks, Tom.”

Ah, so not Mom and Dad, then. I was fairly certain Tom was one of the guys who worked at the church with him. Or maybe I was thinking of Jim? Or Bob? Whatever the case, there seemed to be a lot