4. Mallory
Chapter 4
Mallory
It wasn't the way I would've chosen to meet Hugo, if given the choice.
I was sitting at the table, minding my own business in the quiet shop, when he breezed in. He didn't notice me, not at first. It was all I could do to hold back my gasp as my eyes swept over him. Possibilities buzzed through me, but in the end, it was he who approached me .
I should have been upfront in the beginning, I know that. Something kept me from total honesty. I'm not sure yet what it was, only that I didn't want to show him my hand. It wasn't fair because he wasn't aware of who he was playing against, but some cards I need to keep close to my chest.
More than likely, I have ruined any chance of ever gaining Hugo's trust, at least enough for him to talk to me about his dad. I'm disappointed in myself, and in the situation as a whole.
Having very possibly just signed the death certificate on all the work I've been doing for years, I force myself through the small restaurant. I feel the gazes of the men and women who walked in, and Margaret, the lovely owner who introduced herself to me.
The relentless sun assails my eyes as I step from Sammich. Tenting my hand across my eyebrows, I— Hugo?
The man I have probably pissed off for life stands on the edge of the sidewalk in front of me. His eyebrows cinch with his angry stare, his jaw taut. His arms cross in front of his chest, his weight rolling back on his heels.
God was very, very heavy-handed when He created this man's physical attributes. From his head of thick, shiny brown-black hair to his olive skin and arched eyebrows, forearms roped with muscle, and shoulders a woman could hold onto, there's a lot to look at. Don't let me get started on that angular jawline. He must have some physical abnormality to make up for the unfair generosity. Six fingers, perhaps?
I already know he doesn't. I've spent plenty of time learning about him on the Internet, poking through photos of him fencing, standing on the podium at the Olympics, accepting his gold medal. I came to Olive Township knowing exactly what Hugo De la Vega looks like.
Hugo's eyebrows are raised, like he's waiting for me to say something. Only, I don't know what to say. How can I make this any better? Angry doesn't begin to describe him. Anger's second cousin, hurt feelings, has joined our twosome. And quite possibly embarrassment, a third cousin twice removed.
Not that I blame the guy. What was I thinking, letting him talk to me like that? Letting him think I was available? It's just that, well, he's so handsome it makes my stomach turn in on itself. It actually hurts to look at him.
And yet.
Nothing could've prepared me for the real thing. Because he's nothing like the photos. The Hugo I met today is warm. Genuine. Modest. Funny. He became a real person to me in a way the photos hadn't allowed him to be.
And yes, I feel guilty.
And ok, he's insanely attractive. I didn't know I had a thing for men in dirty work clothes with tools tucked into a great pair of ass-hugging jeans.
New kink unlocked. Or maybe just pregnancy hormones.
Sweet relief sweeps through me. Yes, that's how I feel. Not attracted to him, and that great smile with one corner of his mouth rising higher than the other. It's the pesky cascade of extra hormones wreaking havoc.
Hugo leans back, his backside coming to rest on the front of a white truck. His, I presume.
Now that I don't have to worry about him seeing my (admittedly small) baby bump, I haul my purse higher around my shoulder and stand up straight. His gaze remains locked on mine.
Excitement bubbles. He might be mad, but does he want to talk? Might this be the moment where I finally get to tell him everything I've been trying to say? Stowing my eagerness, I say as calmly as possible, "Would you like to talk?"
"Not even a little." His voice is cold, and his eyes are cool.
"Did you wait for me to come out just so you can tell me what an awful person I am?"
"Awful?" He scrunches one eyebrow, scratching at it with his thumb. "That depends. Does pretending to flirt with somebody just so you can satisfy your personal curiosity make you an awful person?"
I open my mouth to respond, but he continues.
"Or, does traveling to a small town and interrupting somebody's peace, after they've given you no indication you are welcome, make you an awful person?"
I look down at my cute low-heeled boots. Heat burns at the backs of my eyes. My vision blurs.
No no no no no.
I've never been a crier, but this pregnancy has turned me into an unreliable, manic faucet. I cry at nothing. I cry at everything. I cry at puppies. Not puppies being hurt, or uncared for, or malnourished, because that might actually make sense. Puppies simply existing is enough to send little balls of salted water rolling down my cheeks.
It's mortifying. But so far, nothing is more mortifying than standing here in front of an impossibly handsome man who despises me, trying my best to keep the faucet from turning on.
Hugo's dirty brown boots step into my line of sight. " Are you... ok ?" Reluctance colors his tone. I'm sure he wishes he were anywhere but here in this moment.
"I'm fine," I whisper, and though I've managed to rein it in and not go on a real crying jag right here and now, my nose has begun running. A sniffle is all it takes for Hugo to ask with horror, "Are you crying ?"
"It's not you," I say, face flaming.
"I'm not sure how it could be me," he answers, perplexed.
Ugh. Of course. It couldn't be him, because he's done nothing wrong. I'm the one with the audacity to show up here. Though, to be fair, I wasn't expecting to run into him. It's not like I sought him out. It would be one thing if I'd booked a tour at Summerhill Olive Mill in hopes of seeing him there, but I didn't. I was in Sammich, minding my own business .
He stepped in, and the opportunity presented itself. I'd waited so long, hoped and hoped for him to respond to one of my emails, only for that hope to be dashed. I had to take the opportunity. I just had to.
What I did not have to do was allow him to flirt with me. Or, to flirt back.
But how do you stop an avalanche once it gets started? One look at his handsome face and mesmerizing eyes, and it was like all my nerve endings plucked up to the surface of my skin.
None of our banter was fake, but I won't be telling him that. Certainly not with this baby growing inside me, or the fact I'm a host of a podcast he wants nothing to do with .
Swiping at my eyes, I look up. Immediately, I recognize my mistake. He's too close. Too handsome. The physical pull, the desire to step closer, is irrelevant to who he is, or the possible connection between my sister and his father.
A flash cuts across his eyes. He feels it, too. Even angry with me, hurt and embarrassed, he knows something is there.
"Come on," he says, pushing off his truck. "I'll walk you to your car."
"Why?" I ask, staying rooted in place.
"Because it's the nice thing to do. And it'll allow me to make sure you get inside and drive west."
"What's west?"
"The road out of Olive Township."
I can't help the laugh that burbles out of me. "Jokes on you, buddy. I have a massage tomorrow morning at ten, followed by a facial at two." There's no chance I'll be skipping out on the pampering. I need it.
"You're here for the spa?" His eyes narrow. He doesn't believe me.
"Yep." I nod. Any trace of my near sob episode has gone away, and for that I'm extremely grateful. "The spa, and a taste of olive oil."
One side of his mouth quirks up, and a small part of me rejoices. I know that's the closest I'm going to get to a smile.
"Where are you staying?" Hugo asks. He finally uncrosses his arms for the first time since I exited Sammich. His voice isn't nice, exactly, but it's not as acerbic. I'll take what I can get for now.
"The Olive Inn."
Hugo makes a face. "I'm surprised you're not staying at the hotel connected to the spa."
I shrug. "Booked."
He nods. "Well, let's go." He turns, starting off down the street.
Despite how good he looks in those jeans, I won't be backing down. "There's no way I'm giving up a massage and a facial just because you want me to leave town."
Hugo stops, turning around to face me. "The Olive Inn is this way."
We stare at each other, a three-second standoff. It would be nice to know what he's thinking, but he has mastered an unbelievably good poker face.
"Fine," I answer, "but I need my bag from my car." Which, as luck would have it, is parked beside his truck.
I pop the trunk with my key fob, and when I get to the back of my car, Hugo is already there, lifting my small suitcase and setting it on the ground. Without a word, he heads for the sidewalk and sets off.
"So, what do you?—"
"This is a silent walk," he clips, cutting me off.
Silent walk? What kind of horseshit is that?
I want to talk. Ask all the questions. I'm brimming with queries. Dying to hear him speak about almost anything, because there is so much to be gleaned from idle chatter.
But, no. The guy is a fortress .
One block down and to the right, sits the Olive Inn. I pause when we reach it, but not Hugo. He pivots, begins retracing his steps. I take a deep breath, knowing this might be my final opportunity, and I have to exhaust every last option.
"Hugo," I call after him.
He stops. Turns around slowly. Looks me in the eyes.
With finality, he says, "No, Mallory."
Hugo leaves me in front of the small hotel with little more than a gesture at the place and a terse goodbye . Our first in-person meeting was only marginally better than all those deleted emails.
The check-in process is smooth, consisting of little more than producing a driver's license and credit card. Olive Inn is quaint, as the name suggests, but not out of date. The lobby has gleaming wood floors, a stone fireplace, and charcoal drawings of olive branches on the wall above a plush leather couch. It's homier than a typical hotel check-in, and smells of something resinous and earthy. A peek at the candle burning on the check-in desk tells me the scent is Desert Rain .
The day manager, Karen, wears a warm smile and gestures with her hands as she spouts directions to my room. Her right hand lifts when she tells me to make a left, and her left hand lifts when she tells me to make a right. It's endearing. I like her immediately.
"Unfortunately, the hotel doesn't have its own restaurant," she says, like it's an afterthought as I'm stepping away. "But there's a guide to the town on the table in the room. And if you need anything, the night manager's name is Braxton. He'll be here soon."
I thank her and walk in the direction she's pointed me, hoping to find my room despite her jumbled instructions. It's a small place, maybe twenty-five rooms. Turns out, I could have found room seventeen without a single direction from anybody. I let myself in, giving my wheeled luggage a push with my foot. It's a basic room with a king bed, a nightstand, and a small desk and chair. The only thing of note is a framed original town map on the wall opposite the bed. Sidestepping my luggage where it has rolled to the middle of the room, I stand before the map.
Olive Township, 1959.
Summerhill Olive Mill stands proud in the west, peering over the rest of the town. The main road, Olive Avenue, runs through the center of town, and reminds me my car is still parked in one of the spaces on the street. A few store names buffet Olive Avenue, and a mass of house-shaped boxes designate a neighborhood. One large home takes the space of all the other houses, the scrawl beneath it reading Hampton House. A hotel, maybe? To the east, a farm spreads, with the words St. James Farm. Smaller roads crisscross the map, but are not named. Is one of these the road where Simon was murdered?
There is so little I know about what happened to Simon De la Vega, and it seems I'm not the only one. The investigation was closed following a lack of evidence. A man was strangled in broad daylight on an open road, but there was no evidence. No witnesses. The only person of interest had an alibi.
If it hadn't been for the Reddit board and my late-night phone scrolling, the cold case from twenty years ago wouldn't have caught my attention.
What Arizona murders remain unsolved?
It pulled me in. Not only because of Case Files , but because I was morbidly curious if my sister would be on it. She was all over the news for so long, the shy smile of a twelve-year-old girl who still had baby fat in her pink cheeks.
It made my chest ache to think of her, but I kept scrolling. Halfway down the list, I saw her name. And then, in another comment, was Simon De la Vega. The person called him an Olive King . I was curious, my mind running. Was he killed for money? His land? Was it something less nefarious? A crime of opportunity?
A quick type of his name in my internet search bar revealed story after story, all variations of the same report. But then, on a true crime message board, was the dissection of the case. The anonymous poster had details that weren't included in the bland news reports.
Details that were consistent with my sister's cause of death .
There had been nothing to go on with Maggie. No cameras in that area of the water park, especially not in the bathroom where she'd been killed. Because of all the parkgoers, there was no way to separate one set of footprints from any other. No signs of struggle. It was a well-used public space and the cleaning staff had neglected the bathroom the night before, there was no way to connect the various DNA lifted from the scene to the murder.
Whoever killed my sister walked away, and here I am fourteen years later, sitting on a hotel bed in Olive Township, chasing a lead that might turn out to be futile.
But I have to try. For so many people, I need to see this through. My mother, for starters. Maybe if I can bring her healing, she'll get her life back. I'll get my mom back. For Maggie. For me. For this little peanut in my belly.