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

for helping me pay off my mortgage within three years of Makeup Matters.

The chill in the studio caused goosebumps to rise on my bare legs, the only skin Silas’s hoodie wasn’t long enough to shield. Pained by the smell of his aftershave near the collar each time I inhaled, I wondered if this piece of clothing would be it—all I’d have left of a man I’d actually started to believe could care for me.

But I couldn’t process that yet.

I couldn’t process any of it.

Silencing that heartbreak, I reached for my laptop on a desk I hadn’t worked from in weeks, then clicked onto the smiling image of a woman who looked so much like me and yet not like me at all anymore. Still, I needed this. I needed this escape into an old familiar routine that would welcome me back without question and ease today’s wounds and troubles with mindless quizzes, clickbait articles, and hot new trends. Anything to keep my thoughts off The Bridge.

Unbidden, the image of Wren burned through the barriers of my subconscious. Butchered. Bleeding. Broken. That ever-present internal shiver wracked my body once again. The same way it had when I’d given my statement to the police through chattering teeth. Twice.

And still, the facts I had weren’t enough.

Sasha had been taken into custody, led out in handcuffs, escorted by the same two officers who’d sat with me for hours in the fireside room. All of it felt so foolish now as I pictured Wren lying bloody on a stretcher. The evidence in the shed, the bargain I’d made with Sasha, the altercation at the cottage, the separation of the girls overnight . . . the hopes that somehow I could be the one to save the lost.

All of it replayed in my mind—in full color and full surround sound, like a bad movie I wished I could turn off. Because I knew how it ended. With Wren’s agonizing sobs. Butchered. Bleeding. Broken.

And Silas. That despondent expression on his face as he tracked the ambulance. A look I could have prevented if only I hadn’t tried to be the hero.

My notification bubble showed more than seven hundred new interactions since the last time I’d checked in: new followers, new likes, new commenters, new shares. An easy distraction to get lost in for hours. I scrolled through several dozen comments of people asking why I hadn’t posted many selfies, when my next livestream would be, and where my latest series was.

I scrolled farther down to where the trolls lived, their word daggers the same as usual: fat cow, not even that pretty, just another stupid blonde looking for attention. My finger hovered over the last one: “. . . only famous because of her fairy-tale hair.”

Her fairy-tale hair.

It was a trapdoor comment that led me right back to a memory I was trying to avoid. To Sasha saying, “Your life is like a freaking fairy tale, only worse. More pathetic.” And maybe she wasn’t all that wrong. Maybe she’d seen exactly what I’d wanted her to see. What I’d wanted the entire world to see. The lie.

A lie so masterfully created, so flawlessly engaging, that not even a daily ghost poster could break its momentum.

I squeezed my eyes closed, seeing Wren’s trembling hands as they clutched at her shorn head, mourning the loss of something so distinctively her. The sight was a pain I wouldn’t wish upon anybody. Not even the girl who’d done it to her.

Had Wren seen it yet? Had she seen her reflection? Bile inched up my throat at the remembered torment on her face, at the shock she’d feel at seeing herself for the first time.

I did that to her. A self-accusation I’d heard approximately five thousand times since leaving the manor. Not only hadn’t I protected her, I’d been the one to put her at risk. Each and every time I’d bent the rules on her behalf. Each and every time I’d encouraged her friendship with Monica. Each and every time I wanted to be liked more than I wanted to do the right thing.

I’d been the one to make her a target.

Numbly, I clicked on the opened tab to my email inbox, scanning over the sender names with absolutely no interest in reading a single one. Most of them were daily reminder emails from Rosalyn, but three of them were recent communications from Ethan. All marked urgent with subject lines like Where are your live videos? Where have you been? MANDATORY video call at 9:00 a.m. Monday.

With a frustrated groan, I pushed my chair back and slammed my laptop closed. This is ridiculous! I didn’t care about any of that! I cared about Wren! That’s where I wanted to be—at the hospital, with her. Only I couldn’t be. Because Wren needed Clara. No, Wren deserved Clara. Even-tempered, considerate, thoughtful, empathetic, selfless-to-a-fault Clara.

The antithesis of Molly McKenzie.

I reached for a glass in my kitchen cabinet, flicking on the tap water and filling it to the brim before dumping it all back down the drain.

I left the glass on the counter and forced my feet down the hallway to the bathroom on the right, to the vanity with the special cosmetic lighting for all the live videos I’d recorded right here in this spot.

In the mirror, I stared at a naked face I no longer recognized as my own. I studied the pair of sapphire eyes to which I’d applied countless colors of eyeshadow, dozens of magnetic lashes, and brand after brand of anti-smudge liquid liner. I stared past the dark pupils into an even darker soul, asking the only question I knew how to voice: Who are you?

Because I was no longer the practiced smile and perfectly made-up face I was two months ago. Nor was I the selfless leader I’d tried and failed to become. I was a woman lost to the in-between, an identity divided between two versions of herself she could no longer accept. Because neither was complete.

Unlike Wren, my identity hadn’t been compromised