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

older brother. My only blood relative.” Though we’d shared the same mother, there’d been little else we’d shared in common after the day protective services had separated us.

A soft intake of air. “Oh.”

“He was just released from prison. For the second time.”

“Oh, Silas, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine.” I swallowed as she tilted my head to the left, rubbing her thumb along the tendons below my ear. “As you probably heard, we aren’t close.”

“Still, I’m sure that’s hard. It might even make it harder,” she said. “I don’t have much of a relationship with my parents anymore. I know it’s not even close to what you must be going through with your brother, but sometimes I think the strained way things are between us now makes me think of them more, not less. They’re always hovering close. In my thoughts. My memories.”

It was the first time she’d mentioned her family—outside of Miles or her grandmother. And even though I couldn’t see her face or the way her eyes likely shifted to the floor, the significance of such an admission was unmistakable.

“Where do your parents live?”

“Where haven’t they lived?” Her exhale came out as a tired laugh. “They work for a ministry organization that takes them all over the U.S. and sometimes abroad. They’re church planters. To impoverished communities. These days, they rarely stay anywhere for longer than a year or so.”

Interesting. “Was it that way growing up, too? You and your brother traveling with them from church plant to church plant?”

“Yes, though it was a slower process back then. We lived in six states in ten years, from ages seven to seventeen. But we always spent a few weeks here every summer.”

“With your grandmother. Mimi, you called her?”

“Yes. Miles and I moved in with Mimi for our last year of high school. Our parents went to the Philippines that year, and I begged to stay back. Miles didn’t want to leave me, so he stayed back, too.” Her sigh was filled with an angst I could feel through her touch. “It’s strange, though. When I think back on it, on being homeschooled by our mom and traveling in the back seat with my brother in our little compact car, my memories of that time, of that part of my childhood, are mostly positive.” Another weak chuckle. “Ten-year-old Molly would never have imagined she’d become an adult who didn’t have the support of her parents.”

“Why don’t your parents support you?” Though I’d heard hundreds of abandonment stories in my line of work, the idea of Molly’s parents willingly walking away from her as an adult seemed unthinkable.

“It’s hard to support someone when you don’t take the time to understand them. And my parents haven’t tried to understand me for a very long time.” A simple explanation that was likely tied to a much deeper root. “Sometimes I wish I could pinpoint the exact moment the distance between us began. Like if I could look back and recall one of those big holiday meal blow-ups where everybody hollers their opinions at one another over a tray of sweet potato soufflé . . . but that’s not what happened with us at all. It was more like a slow erosion of indifference over time. The more I pursued interests and hobbies outside of what they knew, the further the distance. Miles is about the only thing we have in common now, and even that feels strained.”

“Because Miles is a pastor?”

“Exactly.” The finality with which she spoke the word was sobering. “The truth is, I don’t know how to fit in their world, and they don’t know how to fit in mine. That’s one of the reasons I loved living with my Mimi. She was precious to me.” Molly’s voice took on an ethereal quality. “She always smelled like lavender and honey and was as assertive as she was graceful. She used to say, ‘God has uniquely shaped gifts for every one of His uniquely shaped people.’ She’d tell me it was okay that my gifts didn’t fit inside the same box as my family’s gifts did. But as a kid, that was pretty hard for me to understand. It still is sometimes.” She was quiet for a few seconds before adding, “I suppose that’s something we all want in life, no matter how old we get: to find that special place where we fit.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

Her fingers paused for a beat. “Were you adopted by the Whittaker family, Silas?”

“Yes. Just after my tenth birthday.”

“And did you feel like you fit with them immediately?”

“No, but at the time I hadn’t wanted to fit anywhere.” Especially not with a family who didn’t look or speak like me. And who hadn’t known my mother or my big brother. “But I was a boy with a lot of confusion and anger to work through after my mom died of an overdose. I was the Whittakers’ first emergency placement, and I was anything but easy on them. Eventually, though, they became everything to me, and I’m grateful to be their son. Their brother.”

“And Carlos . . . was he ever adopted?”

“No,” I said, unable to hide my grief or my guilt. “But I imagine so many things would have turned out differently for him if he’d been given that chance.” Or even a place to feel safe during his transition from teenage boy to adult man.

As her fingers slowed and eventually stilled on the nape of my neck, Molly asked, “How is your pain now? Better?”

Remarkably so. “Yes, thank you.”

“Good. I’m glad I could help.” I felt her distance as soon as she stepped away from me.

“Molly.” Slowly, gingerly, I opened my eyes and reached out for her wrist, feeling her delicate pulse thrum against my fingers as I stared up at her. “You fit here. At The Bridge. I hope you see that as clearly as I do now.”

She pressed her lips together, swallowed, nodded. “Thank you, Silas.”

22

Molly

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