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

“Once I what?”

This exhale hurt. “Trusted me.”

The silence that followed was excruciating. But I wouldn’t escape it. I deserved this front row seat to the disappointment I’d caused. After all, I’d conned one of the most respectable men I’d ever known for my own personal gain.

“I’m sorry, Silas. I’m so terribly sorry. I know nothing I can say will change what I’ve done, but if you’ll allow me to keep my commitment to Wren, then I’ll hire a driver to take her out to see Nate weekly—a background-checked driver, of course. And I can send you and Clara all the information I’ve collected so far on the fundraiser—that is, if you’ll accept my help from afar. But I understand if you won’t.”

Another several beats of silence until he finally opened his mouth. “Is that all?”

I glanced around the parking lot. Was that his way of telling me he was done with this conversation? With having to stare at my pitiful face? Was this the beginning of his dismissal, where he’d hammer me in place, one coffin nail at a time?

“Was that all of them? The lies,” he said in a detached voice.

“Yes,” I whispered. “Wait—no it’s not. There’s something else.”

He arched both eyebrows, inclined his head.

“I don’t . . .” I bit down on the insides of my cheeks. “I don’t actually speak Italian. Not conversationally. Unless that conversation happens to be in opera form.”

I thought I imagined the twitch in his lips, because it disappeared faster than I could blink.

“I figured as much.”

“You . . . did?”

“Yes, just like I figured there was something you were hiding when you sat in my office for that first interview. Several somethings, as it turned out.”

It was my turn to be confused. “Wait, you knew I was hiding something and still said yes to me being a mentor? Why?”

“Because I believed you needed this house and these residents even more than they needed you. What we did tonight in the fireside room—the high and low points of their day—it’s only a small peek into the collective challenges these kids have faced in their young lives.” He glanced up at the sky. “When I first started in this line of work, helping these youth navigate a life path they hadn’t been prepared for, I didn’t want to praise every baby step forward. I wanted to see them run through the finish line. I knew how far they had to go, and the progress I could see in the moment didn’t feel worth the time. I wanted to rescue them—to pay their way, to cosign their debts, to remove the hardships they faced on a day-to-day basis. I wanted to be the faithful authority figure they never had.” He looked at me. “But more often than not, the best rescue plan we can offer someone we care about is our support for each step they take forward.”

His words cracked something open inside my chest, something I’d worked to dam up a long time ago.

“Are you saying you might . . .” I rubbed my lips together, too afraid to even suggest the idea of yet another second chance with Silas. “You might allow me to stay with the program?”

“I’m not making this decision based on where you were when you started, but where you are now. No more lies, Molly. No more half-truths. No more trying to custom-make the rules. If there’s a question, you ask first, act second. It’s the only way I can assure the safety of our residents and our staff, including you.”

Stunned by a pardon I never in a billion years believed I’d be granted, another chin-quivering episode took over my face. “I promise. I don’t ever want to hurt anyone here.”

He studied my face. “I believe you.”

And then, before I had time to react to the one statement I’d longed to hear since our first meeting, Silas crossed the divide between director and volunteer and folded me into the kind of hug that could make even the loneliest of hearts feel reconnected again. And as I laid my head against his chest, listening to the strong beat of his heart, I realized I didn’t want to be a Catherine type after all. Because as much as I craved his respect and approval . . . those weren’t the only things I desired from a man like Silas.

A man I could so easily care for, and yet could never deserve.

21

Silas

Glo set her Diet RC Cola on the coffee table and sank lower into the couch cushion, laying her head back against the high leather back and exhaling deeply. A clear indication she was in no rush to wrap up our Tuesday lunch-hour meeting. Strangely enough, I wasn’t, either. While I’d come to enjoy this new meeting location, one she and the residents had deemed the “lobby living room,” my mind still had at least seven tabs open. Six of which had to do with the woman I held responsible for outfitting this new homey meeting space.

The same woman I’d held against my chest approximately three hundred feet from where I sat now.

I rubbed my hand down the length of the sofa arm, thinking back to the delivery of such a generous yet anonymous gift. The residents were correct. This was the most comfortable piece of furniture inside Fir Crest Manor to date. But the donations hadn’t stopped there. This once bleak room now included a swanky rug, a dark-stained coffee table, a couple matching side tables, and four lounger chairs. And two shelves’ worth of books. The note on that box had simply read No historical manor is complete without a good mystery or romance novel.

How is she today? I’d asked myself this question more than a dozen times as I replayed Molly’s teary confession, hearing her bold words again and again, remembering the way her hair had brushed my chin as I’d pulled her to me.

“I’ve been sensing a weird vibe. In the cottage,” Glo said ominously, pulling me back to the present. She