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

As Val’s face surfaced in my mind, I reached for my depressed drink of choice—a giant Diet Dr. Pepper, light ice—and drank until the carbonation outburned the tears in my throat. Because I couldn’t—wouldn’t—cry about what Ethan had taken from me. Nor would I dwell on the fact that his only reply to my voicemail was an email reply that read:

Ms. McKenzie,

As per your contract, third page, paragraph five, all Cobalt employees who manage Makeup Matters are subject to our discretion for hiring, promoting, and dismissing. We hope you find Rosalyn Bronswick an exceptional replacement, and we look forward to the work she will produce with you.

Ethan Carrington

I gave the parking lot another once-over—in case I’d somehow missed Silas’s black sedan the first several times I’d searched for it. But his car hadn’t appeared. And perhaps that was the disappointment that had done me in. Because if I hadn’t fully realized it when I’d first parked out here, I could no longer pretend I didn’t know it now: I’d driven here for Silas. I needed a slice of his natural calm, his exceptional self-control, and whatever else he possessed that made circumstances seem more bearable whenever I was around him.

I wondered where he was tonight. His parents’ house again? A work commitment? A date?

That last thought came with a needle prick of envy. Could Silas be out on a date right now? I huffed and tossed the carton of fries to the passenger seat beside me. Scrunching up my nose, I imagined the sort of woman Silas might take out to dinner on a random Monday night. Because naturally, he would go out on a Monday night. It was the most practical of date days after all—no crowds to fight, weekly specials on dinner menus, and no pressure to stay out late due to an early Tuesday morning work schedule.

As for the woman, well, she’d be poised for sure. Elegant, yet principled, with some sort of social justice–oriented career just like Silas. Maybe she was a social worker, a human rights advocate, or something equally important having to do with writing policies for changed legislation. And her name would be something sophisticated like Catherine or Caroline or Camille. And certainly, she would be the epitome of emotional stability.

Definitely not the kind of gal who’d sit in a darkened parking lot eating the very food featured on a this-is-what’s-wrong-with-America docuseries.

I shifted in my seat and swiped an abandoned fry off my knee to the floor mat.

I supposed a woman like Catherine would find Silas attractive, seeing as she’d probably be into know-it-all attitudes and likely enjoy a calculated approach to pretty much everything in life. But I’d never been into those honest-to-a-fault types. No, I’d been into the type of man who would swindle his girlfriend’s work assistant with a job offer she couldn’t refuse.

A text came through the console of my Tesla’s touchscreen.

The Duke of Fir Crest Manor

Technically, sitting in a parked car for 34 minutes on private property is loitering. A code orange security breach.

I looked around again. What . . . how does he know I’m here? Where is he?

The Duke of Fir Crest Manor

But also, technically, you’re the most popular event that’s happened on our security screens in months. Glo is about to make popcorn.

A fluttering sensation filled my entire being. But where was Silas—inside the house?

The Duke of Fir Crest Manor

Your growing audience is eagerly awaiting a wave.

And because I’d built a life on pleasing an audience I couldn’t see, I did exactly that. I waved. And then I tapped my console screen and flashed my headlights, too.

The Duke of Fir Crest Manor

You coming inside?

Molly

. . .

I started at least five texts in response, erasing them all as I fumbled for a suitable reason for why I’d been sitting in my car for thirty-four minutes and counting. Something that wouldn’t make me sound entirely lame and pathetic. But not even my most creative excuses seemed good enough. Because no matter how I tried to spin it or pretty it up, the truth was getting more and more difficult to disguise: Though I was one of the most liked personas on the internet, I was likely one of the most lonely, too.

For the second time that day, tears blurred my vision. I started the “most efficient engine” on the planet. I reversed out of my parking spot, tires crunching over gravel, when I heard a voice shouting after me.

“Molly! Wait!”

I craned my neck to see Silas jogging down the cobblestone path.

I stopped my car and fought the urge to shrink to the floorboard. But it was too late to disappear now. And there wasn’t a handbag large enough in all the world to block him from view this time. He was headed straight for me.

He knocked on my window, and I reluctantly pressed the button to lower it.

“Where are you going?”

It was perhaps the most profound of all questions he could ask me at the moment—to which my answer would be the same in every area of my life. “I have no idea.”

Though I focused on the steering wheel, the intense way he studied my profile stripped the pretense from every cell of my body.

“I figured you were waiting to come inside until you . . .” He tilted his head to glance at the spot beside me—at the supersized cold fries scattered across my seat like a game of 52-card pickup. “Finished your dinner.”

“No,” I said, hoping the tear balancing on the rim of my bottom eyelashes wasn’t as obvious as it felt. “I just . . .” Had no plans at all and didn’t want to be alone tonight. “I didn’t think you were here.”

“You came because you didn’t think I was here?” Confusion laced his voice.

“No, that’s not what I—never mind.” I shook my head and swiped the stupid tear from my eyelash. “Do you think we can just . . . can we pretend you didn’t see me on those security cameras? I think that