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

When Silas didn’t volunteer anything else, I prompted him. “Miles told me you were the one behind The Bridge receiving Fir Crest Manor after it went to the estate board.”

“There was a team of us involved. It certainly was not a solo effort.”

And yet, even from that one sentence, I knew Silas had more to do with the acquisition of that giant house for his program than anyone else. That was the kind of guy he was. No one who met Silas in person would ever think of him as someone who’d be okay with doing anything halfway. Silas was the kind of person you wanted to be next to when the world turned upside down. Because while chaos ensued, he would be the guy with the clear head and the strong voice, the one mapping out the next right steps for us all.

“Well, I’m glad it was awarded to The Bridge. I can’t imagine that gorgeous manor being used for anything else.” I pressed the damp cloth to my face, feeling instant relief as the warmth soaked into my dehydrated skin.

“We’ve come a long way, but we still have a long way to go.”

His words prompted a familiar question. “What’s your off-the-page goal for the program, Silas?”

“My . . . off-the-page goal?”

“Yes, sorry,” I said, realizing how normal that question was to me but how weird it likely sounded to the outside person. “It’s a phrase Miles and I made up years ago when we started goal setting every January. Although that makes him sound like a willing participant, and he’s not. He complains about coming over for days beforehand every year, and then only agrees because he can never say no to my white chicken chili. But we coined that phrase for the goals that are too big for just one page. I’m curious: What would it be for The Bridge?”

The hard sigh that followed made something in my chest constrict as I made my way to the sofa once more, wiping my under-eye area gently, then folding the warm rag in half to do the same on the other side of my face. Silas was under no obligation to answer this dig-deep question of mine. We weren’t friends. We weren’t really even colleagues. We were just . . . two people who existed in the same time and space on Tuesday and Friday.

“Interesting timing,” he all but murmured. “I’m actually just arriving home from a trustee meeting where I was asked a variety of questions about the future of our program. I can say with some level of confidence that your approach is far more appealing than theirs.”

The idea of a trustee board peppering Silas with questions did not sit well with me. It was difficult to imagine anybody challenging his authority in an area he had proven himself an expert in. “Is everything okay?” I tucked my feet beneath me before reaching for my mug of now-cool ginger tea, my stomach suddenly unsettled. “I mean, I’m sure you’re not at liberty to discuss details, but is the program okay? The kids?”

“Yes.” Only it wasn’t the kind of yes wrapped in a sigh of relief. It was the kind of yes that seemed contingent on a list of other yeses. I knew that version of the word quite well, seeing as it was most often used during my meetings with the Cobalt Group while Ethan was wearing his manager hat and not his boyfriend hat. Those hats were starting to look more and more the same these days.

“Well, good. Because I’ve got a drawer full of pointy hair accessories that could easily double as weapons if I needed to give some old dudes the what for.”

“There are several women on the board, as well.”

“My accessories drawer is equal opportunity.”

He chuckled as I heard the jangle of keys, a door opening and closing, and footsteps walking on some kind of hard surface floor—definitely not carpet. Wood? Tile? What would the personal residence of one Silas Whittaker look like? Did he organize his spice cabinet and food pantry like he did his office bookshelf? “I’ll keep the offer in mind. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Tap water turned on in the background, hitting a sink basin before filling something. A glass? A container?

“What are you making right now?”

A pause. “Tea.”

“You’re a tea drinker? So am I! What kind do you like?”

“Chamomile.”

“Huh.”

“I suppose you have an opinion about this?”

“Not exactly. Though it is curious why you would choose such a flavorless option as your tea of choice,” I said.

A quiet chuckle, and then, to my utter shock, Silas switched gears entirely. “I’d like to see every name that represents a teen in transition not only have a bed but a home, people to rally behind them and believe they can be more than the cards they’ve been dealt. I’d like to see every room at Fir Crest Manor used to its fullest potential—even our barren lobby. I’d like to triple our staff, providing jobs to weary case workers who need respite yet still want to be part of the solution to improve the system. We’ll need several more cottages built for sleeping quarters, and someday, I’d like to provide an option to extend our program into independent apartments for those older than twenty-one but who still need some guidance and a safe place to land. On that note, I’d like to have a dedicated closet of supplies for graduates who are ready to move on. I want them to leave with more than the worn-out luggage they came to us with.” The high-pitched whistle of a kettle sounded in the background, and I pressed the phone closer to my ear to hear Silas’s voice. “Ultimately, I want Fir Crest to feel like a home, especially to the residents who’ve never had one.” He paused a beat. “Does that qualify for your off-the-page goals?”

“Yes,” I whispered, though I could hardly exhale, my mind already whirring away with ideas—the first being to submit a formal request