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

She released a heavy exhale, and as she did, the notebook she held slacked away from her chest just enough for me to make out the corner of a glittered word. I reached for it, prying it away from her hands to read the shimmery pink phrase in its entirety: Sparkling Is My Favorite Sport.

A laugh erupted from my throat. If ever there was a life motto to describe someone by, this was hers. Molly sparkled wherever she went, even now, when she was trying her best to conceal it from the world.

She tried to pluck the notebook back from me, but I shook my head. The last place it belonged was pressed against a T-shirt that couldn’t decide whether it was peach or tan. “What exactly were your plans for such a notebook today?”

“Like I said earlier,” she said with about twenty-five percent more spice than before, “I was hoping to take some measurements of the lawn and garden area. I was also hoping I might find a corner where I could work in the house and sketch out some plans. It’s easier for me to visualize it all if I’m here.” Absently she touched the side of her head where she’d pinned her golden mane into a style I’d seen her create in one of her hair tutorials. A weaving together of loose curls that somehow required more hardware than my kitchen cabinets.

“Seeing as this house is twelve thousand square feet, I think we can do better than offer you a corner to work from.” Though there were a dozen possibilities, only one registered as the suggestion I’d offer. “There’s an empty room directly across the hall from mine. It’s yours for however long you need it.”

“Thank you,” she said with a smile much closer to her natural brightness. “I might need to ask your opinion on a few details later—in regards to the dinner. I had some thoughts about the decor and agenda for the evening.”

“That’s fine. But, Molly, you should know that our budget will be limited as to what we can afford to host here on the grounds.” The subject made the headache I’d managed to suppress throb yet again.

She shook her head. “And you should know that it’s my goal for The Bridge not to have to pay a cent for hosting it at all. I just need to think through some of the bigger details a bit more first, but between my sponsors and my platforms, I’m fairly certain I can build a strategy that can pay for it all without dipping into your accounts.” Her smile grew, and once again, I was taken aback not only by her beauty but also by her resilience.

“Okay,” I found myself saying. “Just let me know what I can do to help.”

“I will.”

While Molly walked the grounds, sketching in her notebook and taking notes, I carried some temporary office furniture from downstairs into the room across the hall for her to use once she came back inside. As I pushed the table to the window, I saw her. She wasn’t alone. Both Monica and Wren had joined her—all taking giant yard-stick size steps and falling into fits of laughter I could hear, even from two floors up. As I continued to watch, something undeniable tugged inside my chest at the sight of her here. Something I wasn’t yet willing to admit, even to myself.

Perhaps Glo had been right. Maybe Molly’s soft center was exactly what someone like Sasha needed. Maybe it was what we all needed.

The harsh shrill of my phone shoved the tranquil moment aside and yanked my thoughts away from the woman twirling in circles outside my window and to the unknown number on my phone screen.

“Hello, this is Silas.”

“Silas, mi hermano.”

A familiar cold crept over my skin at a voice I’d know anywhere. “Carlos.”

“You sound good, brother. You’re healthy?”

I turned my back to the window and lowered my voice, working to recall the many hours of therapeutic roleplay I’d endured after the incident. “I’ve asked you not to call me.” Though boundaries likely didn’t mean much to a convict.

“The judge released me two months early—for good behavior. I wrote to tell you, but I wasn’t sure if you—”

“Is there something you need from me, Carlos?”

The pause on the other end of the phone caused me to prepare for whatever manipulation web was waiting to be spun. My brother’s lies were often as subtle as his breath.

“I’m not your enemy, brother.”

“The scar on my arm would disagree.”

“That was a mistake. I’m not that man anymore. I’m clean—I’ve been clean. For over two years now. Everything is different, I’ve explained it all in my—”

“A mistake implies a moment of misjudgment, not a lifetime of bad decisions.” My words lacked warmth but not sincerity. Though I had prayed my brother would change, that he would find a true and lasting faith in God, I no longer believed I would be the one to lead him there. Not after he’d left me for dead at the bottom of a cement staircase in the pursuit of another hit.

“I called to ask if you would meet me—you can pick the place. Any day or time. If you need me to bring Peter, I will. He’s the pastor I’ve told you about—the one who visited me in prison every week. He’s my sponsor, too. He gave me a Bible and a job stocking food at a warehouse in Bellingham. That’s where I’m living now. He said I could take a day off to meet you.”

Though I worked to guard myself against his every word, the cramp in my chest expanded. If the man could watch his own brother be beaten and thrown down a staircase, he certainly wouldn’t think twice about using the Bible for ulterior motives. “A meeting won’t be possible.”

“I’m telling you the truth, brother. Call my sponsor, please. His name is Peter Rosario. He works at Applegate Community Church in Bellingham, and he’ll vouch