“Thanks for the tip,” I said. “And I’m perfectly fine to wait for him while you see to your other tasks. It was good to meet you.”
“You too.” And then Glo stopped and twisted back, a huge grin on her face. “Kitten heels, huh?”
“You should really give them a try,” I called out after her. “You just might love them.”
Her wheezy laugh echoed down the corridor, then faded quickly, leaving me with nothing but the sound of my own breathing for company. I scrunched my lips together. Fifteen minutes until the interview—the perfect amount of time to do a little exploring to better acquaint myself with this place and its inhabitants. Though I typically used any wait time in my day to check in with Val or compare my last live video stats with other trending fashion videos on Instagram and YouTube, this gigantic house was much too fascinating for me to ignore.
It made me miss my Mimi something fierce. She would have loved this place.
With quiet footsteps, I trailed past a set of worn fabric couches and a twin pair of built-in bookshelves—but apart from a handful of plaques featuring businesses and organizations around town, most of the shelves were empty. A shame, really. They were practically begging for books.
Though the custom carpentry of the manor was stunning, the chosen furnishings fell short of its grandeur by a mile. How had The Bridge purchased such a magnificent property?
My intrigue soared as I reached a cork board hanging on a back wall, displaying an open brochure of colorful pictures mounted by a thumbtack. Something tugged in my chest as I skimmed over some of the faces I’d seen on the internet. All young adults varying in size and shape, skin color and gender. An older man with a Santa-type beard and a plaid shirt posed in the bottom left corner, his arm slung around an African-American boy. Oddly enough, the jolly-looking lumberjack was exactly who I’d pictured Mr. Whittaker to be. A gentle soul with friendly eyes and a relaxed demeanor, as if there wasn’t an issue in the world that a few corny jokes couldn’t solve. No wonder Miles liked the guy so much. Nobody disliked Santa.
I scanned the rest of the candid shots, wondering about the stories of each. The mission statement on the website for The Bridge said, “We are a program dedicated to co-partnering with youth ages 18–21 as they make a successful transition into independent living through life skills classes, mentorship, and spiritual guidance.” Did these young people have families they were still connected to? From what I’d read online and gathered from my brief conversations with Miles, many of the residents here had lived through difficult life situations, growing up in foster care or group home environments as teenagers.
Something pinged against the large window beside me, pulling me out of my spinning thoughts. I shifted the curtains back and split the blinds apart, catching a glimpse of a group of people wearing sweatshirts, goggles, and multicolored beanies, all of them darting in and out of the forest beyond my vantage point. I moved down the hallway, glancing out each window, until I reached a set of French doors. Stepping onto a patio that led to a cobblestone path, I quickened my steps toward the lush lawn area and then farther still to the edge of a thick forest of pine trees.
I strained to hear something other than the whistle of wind through pine needles or a random bird call. Strangely, there was nothing. No sound and no people scurrying about like I’d seen from inside. Disappointed I’d missed all the excitement, I turned back to the Clue Mansion.
“There they are! Go! Go! Go! Attack!”
A rush of voices paired with pounding footsteps charged at me from every direction. I didn’t have time to distinguish the type of projectiles that two groups on either side of me were shooting, but it was clear the instant a round of neon darts pelted my upper back that I’d stumbled into a wrong-time-wrong-place scenario. I threw my purse to the ground and crouched low, covering my head and yelping each time a rubber-tipped dart peppered my torso, backside, and legs. Holy heavens, how was it possible for foam to hurt this badly? Wasn’t foam used in pillows and mattresses and other comfort items? Certainly not this brand of foam. Ouch! I flinched as one death missile after another pinged off my limbs.
“Cease fire! Cease fire!” A masculine voice cut through the chaos, followed by a quick succession of footsteps.
I had the strangest desire to raise my hands above my head and plead not guilty as the attack finally halted. Instead, I remained in the duck-and-cover position, peeking out through my curtain of blond beach waves in time to see a man standing over me, his arms spread wide like a human shield.
In the silence that followed the command, I assessed the pile of orange shafts pooled around my heels and handbag. As I lifted my head, a lone one swung from the curled end of my hair like a fashion accessory gone horribly awry.
“Ma’am? Are you all right? I’m afraid you were caught in the crossfire of our final showdown. I apologize we didn’t detect you sooner—the nightshade goggles are a part of today’s challenge, a lesson in team building and communication.”
He reached a hand down for me.
Half blinded by my hair, I involuntarily accepted the same challenge as the residents to view my surroundings with obstructed vision. My gaze settled first on a bronzed wrist and climbed up a scarred forearm to land on a corded bicep tucked under the sleeve of a slate gray T-shirt. And then, finally, I saw him. My rescuer.
“Um . . .” I swallowed, blinked, and stared straight into the eyes of a much younger, much sexier version of Antonio Banderas. He was Zorro, but unmasked. If this man were an Instagram influencer, his dark eyes alone could sell any number of products. Ethan called this rare trait marketable presence. Zorro’s naturally toasted skin and raven hair glistened in a way that could put even my most reliable photo editing filter to shame.
“Ma’am?” Concern pinched his brow. “Are you . . . hurt?”
I took a breath and demanded all my brain cells back to order. “No, no, I’m okay.”
I straightened my dress on my hips, and his eyes followed the movement.
“I’m not sure your knees would say the same.”
I glanced at the thick smear of dirt and grass on my kneecaps and dusted them off, aware of the heavy scrutiny from the tree line. “Perhaps next time I take a walk outside the house, I’ll remember to grab my bulletproof vest.”
“Might not be a bad idea.” His eyes lingered on mine for a few beats more, before a muffled catcall and cough sailed through the air, causing our attention to shift from each other to the gathering crowd around us. Unsure of my role, I waved and offered a hearty, “Hello there, it’s so nice to meet you all.”
With weapons lowered to their sides and shaded goggles lifted, the mix of males and females met my greeting with mumbled hellos and perplexed expressions. By the locked-down stoicism shared by this group of barely adults, it was plain to see that this crowd was not the same smiling, joking, kumbaya-singing-around-a-campfire bunch I’d seen advertised on the lobby’s cork board. Not possible. Though The Bridge advertised themselves as a reputable program to aid young adults in their successful transition to adulthood, a few of these individuals looked to be a step closer to incarceration than independence.
“Again,” Zorro said, clearing his throat as if to cover up their obvious lack of enthusiasm and warmth, “we apologize for the mix-up. It’s not common we host many guests at the house during group time.” He reached down and lifted my nine-hundred-dollar purse off the damp grass and handed it to me. “I’m guessing you’re the new representative sent from SCC? Our house manager, Glo, usually holds our student advisory meetings in the joint office just past the dining hall. I can have one of our residents escort you if—”