6. Mallory
Chapter 6
Mallory
My first morning in Olive Township, and I awake early. I'd been hoping to sleep in, but my body knew I was in an unfamiliar space, pulling me from slumber too soon.
Or, more likely, it's this incessant and insistent need to pee. Four months pregnant, and I'm still not accustomed to the number of bathroom breaks I require in a day.
Rolling over in the passable but not amazing bed, I stare at the ceiling. I'd done the same thing before falling asleep last night, sifting through the day, replaying the moment I realized I was in the same restaurant as Hugo. His easy, lopsided grin, the way his tan work boots were partially unlaced. His unhurried walk, his casual, familiar banter with the owner.
Then the shuttering when he saw the vitamins, plucking my name from the recesses of his memory bank. Still, he walked me here. An ingrained kindness .
Yesterday, I felt embarrassed, and guilty. Today, I feel sad. Sad to have misled him. Sad to have misled myself, even for the briefest of moments. I can't shake the feeling I'm missing out on him.
Stupid of me.
I get up from the bed, exerting just a little more force than I used to. My baby bump is slight, but it still requires a little more effort than before I was pregnant.
Pregnant .
My stomach stares back at me in the bathroom mirror. Some days, I haven't yet accepted I'm pregnant. Other days, I feel that spark of excitement. Nerves, too, plenty of those, but also a feeling of kismet. The man may not have stuck around, but this baby and I? We're meant to be.
I finish in the bathroom, padding over to my suitcase, thrown open on the small desk. I select a pair of leggings, a tank top, and an oversized sweatshirt. My stomach lets out a growl that would mortify me if I were with anybody right now.
"Sorry," I say, patting my belly. I didn't eat the best dinner last night, making do with the snacks I had left from the drive. Slipping my feet into my shoes, I retrace my steps to the lobby, hoping to snag a bottle of water. I'm not particularly thirsty, but it never hurts to have a bottle, especially in the desert.
A head of greasy, black, stick-straight hair greets me.
"Hello," I say, slowing down.
The person looks up without hurry, eyes meeting mine as his unkempt hair falls in curtains around his face. " Good morning," he says evenly. No smile or show of welcome. "How can I help you?"
The name tag clipped to his shirt reads Braxton . His cheeks are pocked with acne scars, eyes faintly bloodshot. I would put him in his mid-thirties, maybe younger if not for his poor posture. My muscles tense, near-flinching, but I school my reaction.
Objectively, his appearance is off-putting, not to mention his overall demeanor.
I snap on a smile and say, "Are there any breakfast places you'd recommend around here?"
He takes a glossy tri-fold paper from a rack, sliding it over the desk with one finger. And then he says nothing. Nothing . The silence stretches on, growing more and more uncomfortable.
"Ok, then," I murmur, taking the paper. "Thanks."
I have the urge to be gone from there as fast as possible, but I hate the idea of him seeing he's rattled me. Forcing myself into a steady pace, I walk from the lobby and out into the fresh Olive Township morning air.
I feel his eyes on me the whole time.
"Thank you." I smile up at the young woman as she places my breakfast down on the table in front of me. Cherry pie pancakes.
Fluffy and warm, a crackle of sugar in the air. I take a bite, nearly groaning. I need these calories. Me, and Peanut.
Very few people know I'm expecting. Jolene, of course. My mom and stepdad, whose reactions were not great after finding out I'd be raising the baby alone. The father, obviously, though I'd like to forget about him. I will forget about him .
And Hugo knows. Not that it matters. He, and Olive Township, will be in my rearview after this weekend. Hugo has made it clear he wants nothing to do with me.
Despite my hunger, I only make it through half the serving of pancakes. I push the plate away, sitting back and wrapping my hands around my mug of honey chamomile tea. One of my favorite activities in life is finding a cozy spot from which to people-watch. Tucked in this back corner booth at Good Thyme Café, there is no better vantage point.
People are fascinating. I once read that when we watch others, certain parts of our brains fire up. The temporal lobe, and the amygdala, helping with facial recognition, social processing, and interpreting emotions based on expressions and body language.
For example, the man sitting a few tables over from me. He drinks a coffee, black, and scribbles in what looks to be a well-loved journal. He writes aggressively, ballpoint pen scratching over the paper, but every so often he pauses to stare out the window, gaze thoughtful and far-off. He wears a starched white shirt, faintly yellowing around the under arms. The sport coat slung over the back of his seat is a cheap material, the lapels curling. Even his?—
"Is this seat taken?"
I startle at the deep voice, the way a man has seemingly materialized out of nowhere. My gaze lifts, trailing over a broad chest, finding their way to a familiar face.
"Why? Trying to make certain I leave town?"
Hugo smirks, taking the seat opposite me without waiting for me to approve. He settles in the booth, an open palm propped on his right thigh, elbow stuck out. He looks casual, comfortable, but somehow princely. Like he owns this place. Like he belongs here. This is his turf.
Now that I know I won't be getting anywhere with him, I feel punchy. When he doesn't say anything right away, I say, "You are the opposite of a Welcome Wagon. You're like...like..." I search my brain. "The Ciao Chariot."
A short laugh bursts from his chest. "Not gonna lie, Mallory, I did not take you for funny."
"What did you take me for?" He's going to give it to me now, I just know it. And why wouldn't he? I've served him up with the perfect opportunity to remind me how underhanded I was.
He props a forearm on the table, leans forward. Brown eyes, deep and thoughtful. Finally, he says, "Tenacious."
I blink against the surprise I'm feeling. Tenacious? That word is very, very far from the litany of adjectives he could have used to describe me.
"I wasn't expecting you to say that."
"I know. "
The server sidles up to the table, offering Hugo a friendly smile. "Hey, Hugo. Cappuccino?"
"Please," he nods. "Thanks, Annie."
When she's gone, he looks back to me. "You jumped out of your skin when I walked up. What were you staring at?" He accompanies his question with a look around the space.
"I like to people-watch." My fingers press into my teacup, the warmth seeping through. "I find there's a lot you can learn about a person by watching them. And what you can't learn, your brain fills in."
Hugo's eyebrows, thick and dark, raise. "When your brain fills in information about somebody, is it fiction?"
"Until it's verified, yes."
"And you were watching...?"
I give a slight nod of my head. "The man sitting alone with his journal."
Hugo surreptitiously clocks him. "And? What did you determine?"
"He writes with gusto. He drinks black coffee, because it gets free refills. His shirt needs to either be replaced, or have the underarms scrubbed with stain remover. His jacket has seen better days. He's stuck in a job he hates, and he has the soul of a dreamer."
Hugo blinks. Hard. "You figured all that out just by looking at him?"
I shrug. "It could all be wrong. Unverified, remember?"
Hugo thanks the server as she drops off his cappuccino, declining her offer to place a breakfast order. "The man you've been watching is named Cliff, though he goes by Crazy Cliff, a name he's given himself. He's not all there, but he's not all gone, either. He lives in a small house on the edge of the east side of town, and he's a used car salesman. That notebook goes everywhere with him, but nobody knows what he writes in it."
"Hmm." My lips purse. "I wasn't that far off."
"No, you were not."
I glance at my watch. The free time before my first appointment at the spa is slipping away. I need Hugo to tell me why he's here. "Are you going to tell me why you've sought me out?"
Hugo sighs, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "My mom wants to know your story. Why you're in Olive Township."
Anticipation starts in my belly, trickling out into my limbs. I've waited so long for even the slightest nod of interest in my direction. This is huge.
"For the record, this is all her idea. If it were up to me, I'd be escorting you from town on the?—"
"—Caio Chariot."
He nods. "Exactly."
I keep my tone calm. Flat. I'm worried if I show too much excitement, I'll spook him. "Does she want to speak with me directly?"
"Consider me the Mallory's reason for being here filtration system."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. He's acting like I'm a true crime sycophant, as if I harbor an unhealthy obsession with murder .
I've envisioned this so many times, conferring with the De la Vega family, comparing notes, and in the end, we are victorious. I don't know who, with what detail we uncover, but we always do, and in the end, the killer is brought to justice.
In my imagination, we are never in a bright and bustling café, a half eaten plate of pancakes between us. We're in a dining room at Summerhill, a space I've filled in with that fiction-supplying brain of mine. We're making discoveries, gasping at breakthroughs.
It was Professor Plum in the library with a candlestick .
Good Thyme Café's sugary air fills my lungs with my deep breath. Here we go.
"I told you in my email I wanted to give you a voice. And I meant it." A chill creeps into my fingers, and it doesn't matter how hard I press into the sides of my teacup. It persists. My sister's sweet face swims in front of me, the way her cheeks clung to her baby fat. "Your dad and my twelve-year-old little sister were murdered the same way."
Hugo's whole body stills, except for his eyes. Compassion sweeps through them. Few people know what it's like to be the survivor of a murdered loved one.
The air between us shifts. In an instant, I get the feeling we are friends, or at least an approximation of friendship. Allies. We are on the same team, us against everyone who hasn't known loss at the hands of another.
"Mallory," Hugo rasps, voice low and apologetic and soft. "I'm sorry. "
My lips purse as I nod my acceptance of his apology. "It was fourteen years ago, but it doesn't get easier."
"No. It doesn't." Something he knows too well. "I... I want to ask you questions, but I don't know how. Or where to start. This…," he falters, searches for his words, "wasn't at all what I was expecting you to say."
"You should know that I rarely tell the people I'm interviewing about Maggie." I'm not interested in trauma bonding with strangers.
"Maggie," Hugo repeats. "Maggie Hawkins?"
"Maggie Atwood. Different dads." Just saying her name makes my throat constrict, but I fight my way through it. I'm still holding onto the teacup, as if it were a talisman. The cup is nearly empty, only the gritty dregs remain.
"And when you say they were murdered the same way, you mean..." His voice trails off, as if he cannot bear to release the words.
My teeth sink into my lower lip, a streak of pain to halt the sob gathering in my throat. "Strangled from behind." Oh. My heart. It twists and curves in my chest, possessed. My baby sister, the way someone kept from her the very thing she needed to survive. Oxygen.
"Fuck," Hugo mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose as his eyes fall closed. There's a sheen to his eyes when he opens them, his hand dropping to his lap. "A child?"
I won't tell him I saw her that way. That it was my fault.
Hugo's arms slide across the wooden table top, buffeting the plate of cold pancakes. His fingers reach for my hands, skating over my skin in the softest of touches. He exerts a gentle pressure, peeling my fingers from the teacup.
I look down, examine where his skin touches mine.
"You were gripping it so hard, I thought you might break it." He releases me, his touch retreating to his half of the table. "I didn't want you to cut yourself."
"Sorry," I whisper, embarrassed.
"Don't be," he whispers back.
There it is again, that feeling. Allies. People who have lived through the fallout of atrocity.
Hugo glances at his watch. "You have a massage at ten, right?"
I squint at him, confused. "Yes, but how?—"
"Yesterday," he answers. "When I offered to escort you from town, and you told me the joke was on me because you have a massage at ten and a facial at two."
A faint smile ghosts my lips. "Offered to escort me from town? That's a nice way of saying don't let the door hit you where the good Lord split you. "
Hugo scrunches his eyes like he's in pain. "Sorry about that. I default to asshole when I think my or my family's peace is being threatened."
"Understandable."
The server, Annie, stops by with the check. Hugo snatches it up, motioning with two fingers for Annie to come closer to him. She bends slightly at the waist, her eyes flickering over to me when Hugo whispers something in her ear .
"You got it," she says, sending me a second look of interest before leaving to take care of her other tables.
"What did you say to her?"
"That I was taking care of your check today."
My eyes narrow at him. "That's it?"
He nods solemnly.
"Then what was with the cloak and dagger?"
He shrugs, nonchalant. "That's between me and Annie."
"Thank you for breakfast," I say, letting it drop because I'm learning Hugo can be strong-willed.
I stand from the table, winding my purse around my body. Hugo steps aside, motioning for me to go first. He waves at a few people on our way through the restaurant, and I don't miss their curious looks. I've heard about small towns being nosy, but I didn't stop to think about what that really means. The way people are in your business, always knowing things.
Might there be some people here who know details that are important to the day Hugo's dad died? People who were watching, listening, keeping tabs on others, not realizing the significance of a seemingly unimportant detail?
It doesn't seem like the right time to bring it up to Hugo. I've only just begun to make an intro with him, and still the connection is tenuous. Easy does it.
"I'll drive you to Sagewood," Hugo says as we spill out into the bright Saturday morning.
People mill about, waiting for shops to open, holding white paper coffee cups with the words Sweet Nothings printed on the side.
"It's not in walking distance?" Another thing I've always heard about small towns, everything is within walking distance.
"Depends on how froggy you're feeling." Hugo motions with his head for me to follow him down the sidewalk.
"Froggy?"
"It's something my friend Penn says. He's a former SEAL."
"Gotcha."
Hugo steps off the curb beside a low-slung, obviously expensive bright red car. He reaches for the passenger door, opening it and gesturing for me to get in.
"Yesterday you were driving a truck."
"That's a mill truck. This is my car."
I step around Hugo, into the open space of the car door. He watches me over the doorframe. Pausing, I press a hand to my hip and squint up at him. "Are you having some sort of midlife crisis?"
He grunts a laugh. "No. Why?"
I drag a single fingertip over the roof of the car. "This is a crisis car."
He smirks. "I thought it was a Ciao Chariot."
A laugh bubbles up as I slide into the car. "If it is, you've officially rounded me up." Hugo produces a pair of sunglasses from his jacket pocket. Sliding them on, he says, "Don't worry, Gumshoe. I'm taking you to the spa."