2. Mallory
Chapter 2
Mallory
To: Hugo De la Vega
From: Mallory Hawkins
Hello,
I'm following up on my most recent email to see if you've given any thought to meeting me. I'm sincerely sorry for what you and your family have experienced, and I'd love to give you a voice. I understand this is unconventional, and not something people usually find enjoyable, but it has tremendously helped others to speak about their experience. I'm including a link to my podcast below. If you listen to it, you'll see how deeply I care about giving voice to unfinished stories.
Best,
Mallory Hawkins
Host of Case Files
"Hugo hasn't responded. Not to your first email, your second, your third, or, shockingly, your fourth." Jolene levels me with a maternal stare as she leans over our kitchen table. Gently she closes my open laptop, and the string of unanswered emails disappears from my sight. Her fingers traipse across the closed computer, finding their way to my cup of fruit. She snatches a red grape and pops it into her mouth.
"I never should have made you my best friend," I gripe, snaking a hand around the white porcelain fruit bowl and curling it into my chest. "Or my producer."
"Face it, toots," Jolene says, settling into the chair opposite me. Her reddish-brown hair is wound in a perfect bun on top of her head, giving her the look of a regal ballerina. "Hugo De la whatever his last name is?—"
"De la Vega," I supply, glancing at the closed computer as I say his name. When I open it again, it will show that same name, and all those unanswered emails. Jolene may have interrupted my fixation on the gold medal Olympian and his non-response, but it's waiting for me where I left it.
She extends a flattened palm between us, nodding. "Hugo De la Vega wants nothing to do with you. Or your quest."
I sit back, selecting a pineapple chunk and nibbling at the end. Disappointment courses through me, but it's nothing new. Months have passed since I sent that first email. Every time I check my inbox, a tiny what if thrill presses at me. It's short-lived, because so far, Hugo De la Vega is incommunicado.
Choosing to be gentle in my initial approach, I'd emailed him a basic query letter. I introduced myself, my true crime podcast, and my mission. I spent hours crafting that email, revising and editing and choosing words that conveyed the depth of my condolences over what he and his family had endured. If there was one thing I knew, it was that the pain from a murdered family member, especially one still unsolved, was endless. And, oh, how it tormented the soul. The heart.
"It's rude of him to ignore you," Jolene says, uncapping a yellow highlighter. She's on hour three of sifting through phone records, highlighting calls that took place during certain times. Jolene moonlights as my Case Files producer, but by day she's an assistant at a law office.
"One could argue it was presumptuous of me to email him." There is a pinprick of defensiveness in my tone. Hugo's not being rude. He's protecting himself. And probably his family, too.
It's what I would do, if somebody cold-called me about my little sister's murder. If I wasn't a true crime podcaster, didn't know what I know, understand how, sometimes, cases are solved and hearts are healed because of podcasts like mine. "If he would email me back and tell me no, I could put this to bed."
Jolene's eyebrows arch. "Could you? "
A reluctant smile curves my lips. My stubbornness lives in infamy. "No."
"Do you want to hear what I think?"
"Aren't you already telling me what you think?" I blow her a kiss, and she pretends to bat it away.
She holds up a finger, saying hold please . Her hand swipes over her phone, and a moment later, she Airdrops a link to my phone. I tap on the notification, and it opens my internet browser. The page loads, showing a serene space, teak furniture, a woman wrapped in a plush white towel lying in a sauna. The image is replaced by a different woman receiving a massage.
"Sagewood Spa?" I ask, confused. "What about it?"
"It's in Olive Township."
"Correct." Olive Township is also where the De la Vegas live, at their locally famous Summerhill Olive Mill. "So?"
Jolene sits back, regarding me with a thoughtful look. "I can't get away anytime soon, but you? You, my friend, are long overdue for a spa day."
"I can't show up in his town, Jolene. Talk about stalker vibes."
"You have the same right as everybody else to use the spa. Come on. It's not weird. That place is basically famous. There are articles written about the Sacred Prickly Pear red clay body treatment. It's listed as a destination spa in travel magazines." She adjusts the sleeve of her button-down blouse. "It's a two-hour drive. Make it your destination ."
"Maybe," I say, toying with my lower lip. Should I go to Olive Township? Scope out the place? I've read about the eclectic small town online enough that, by now, it feels like I already know it. The popular places to eat, the speakeasy with the secret entrance, the store that operates on an honor system. I know all about the Italian family who runs a gelato shop, touted as making a fior de latte that can transport you straight to a piazza in Florence. I know all this because I've been fascinated by the juxtaposition. How can a seemingly senseless murder have occurred in such an idyllic location?
It's the same question that has haunted me every day since I was fourteen, and my little sister was killed at a water park. Years later, the thought manages to steal my breath. The grief is never far, ebbing and flowing like the tide, sweeping over me then leaving me bereft. Powerful enough to drown me on some days.
"Mallory?" Jolene waves a hand in the air. "Where did you go?"
"Memory lane," I respond.
Jolene frowns. "You looked upset. Are you sure all this is a good idea?"
For years, I've been driven by the need to bring my sister's killer to justice. Nothing will bring her back, though I'd give anything for it. My sister's smile could light up a dark room, and ever since that day, I've been living in perpetual darkness. How can I ignore the possibility that the two cases could be linked?
"Yes," I say, with confidence I feel to my bones.
"We can scrap it," Jolene presses .
I shake my head. "No way. Not if there's a chance they could be connected."
"The chance is slim," Jolene warns. Maternal again. I'll have to ask her for tips on how to do that. She's not a mom, but for her, it's natural. An instinct. I certainly won't be asking my own mother. Or my father, not that I ever knew him. He left my mom before I spoke my first word.
"If I have the opportunity to make this world a tiny bit safer, I should take it. I owe him." My hand slides over my slightly swollen midsection, a bump that is barely there. "Or, her."
Jolene eyes me. "What do you plan to do?"
I hold up my phone, scrolling to the button that says Book a service. "Spa weekend."
Jolene attempts a smile. "For both your sakes, I hope you get what you're after." She opens a note on her phone, begins typing. "Fresh notebooks, sharp pencils, felt-tip pens."
"What are you doing?"
"Making a shopping list for your getaway weekend. I know how you like to take notes the old-fashioned way. You need to write down everything you see. Hear. Whatever strikes your fancy. Remember, the end goal is to get Case Files picked up by a podcast network. Foundry," she says dreamily, referring to the network she's had designs on since the moment Case Files was born.
"The end goal is to figure out who killed my sister, and then figure out if it's the same person who killed Simon De la Vega," I remind her. "We are healing hearts. Seeking justice."
Jolene blows out a hard breath. "Yes, of course. Consider Foundry an ancillary goal. Never mind that the show is struggling, and Foundry would be its savior."
"There are dips and swells," I tell her. "It's a natural part of every business."
Even if I truly believe my words, there's still a part of me that worries. What if one day, the dip will be too low to come back from?
It's Jolene's big dream to be picked up by a podcast network. Like so many people, Jolene graduated law school and began practicing, only to be slapped in the face with the reality of the long hours, and how little time she'd have left to have a personal life. Producing Case Files is her passion, and she'd be thrilled to make it her only job.
It's not that it's not my dream, too, but my singular focus was recently interrupted. Getting pregnant was a personal development that left me gobsmacked. So was the realization that I'll be raising this baby on my own.
But, if there is one thing I know for certain, it's that I can't stand the idea of bringing a child into a world where my sister's killer roams free.
I'll do almost anything to get to the bottom of what happened to Maggie, and it starts with a trip to Olive Township.