17. Mallory
Chapter 17
Mallory
David Boylan lives in the small, alpine town of Sugar Creek, Arizona.
He has a social media profile that resembles a ghost town. That would've been a dead end, except one time, ten years ago, when he changed his relationship status. He married, and his wife is the kind of person who turns herself inside out online. Casserole recipes, crocheting patterns, illnesses, and the oddball If you love me, pass this on posts. And also her husband's favorite pastime, rare coins. David holding a rare coin. The two of them at rare coin shows.
I'm proud (kind of) to say I now know a lot about the rare coin market. After locating various websites serving as rare coin marketplaces, I narrowed my search to those in Arizona.
David could've gone anywhere, but I was hoping he'd stay within the state. It's huge, after all. Maricopa County is bigger than some states. Hours of combing through listings, and then I spotted one for a coin from a Bolivian shipwreck, and the seller's name was DaBoy.
Hugo's fancy car smoothes off the highway, cruising past the town sign. "I've been here before," he says, turning the wheel with the heel of his palm. "Only a few months ago to pick up the custom wedding arch I had made by a local guy. Daisy and Penn were the first to get married under it."
"I saw on your website that you offer weddings. That's really cool."
Hugo glances at me, eyebrows raised as he slows before a red light. "I forget you've done your research on me."
The back of my neck heats, but then he leans an inch closer to me and says, "I can give you a tour of Summerhill. Just say when."
"I'd love that."
Hugo follows the navigational directions spouting from his phone, winding his way through the most adorable small town. The vibe here is very different from Olive Township. Pine trees and cottonwood's provide shade, and the stores on the main street are made out of red brick. It has a classic feel to it, whereas Olive Township is decidedly more desert with its white stucco walls and red tile roofs dulled by persistent sun.
"Here we are," Hugo says, slowly pulling up to the home. It's small, with a tidy front yard. Brightly colored flowers spill from a hanging pot affixed to the top edge of the porch. "Are you prepared to purchase a rare coin?" He smirks .
I pat my purse. "I came ready."
Hugo's features rearrange into a serious expression. I can't imagine what he must be thinking right now, looking at the home of the person the police questioned in the murder of his father.
"We can turn around," I say, reaching for his forearm. The muscles there are long and ropy, hewn from hard work. A light dusting of dark hair runs over his skin, and I'm trying very hard not to notice it too much. "If it's overwhelming, if it's upsetting, if you change your mind at any point, we can leave."
He looks down at my grip on his arm. With his free hand, he covers my own. "Why aren't you nervous? This affects you, too. Just as much as me."
"Because we don't know for sure if your dad and my sister are connected. I'm simply going on a hunch, and perhaps a bit of desperation. If I put too much emotional investment into every possibility, it messes with my objectivity, which in turn affects my thought process and my choices. Not that I have a lot of objectivity with this case," I add. "But I am trying to operate the way I normally do." Maintaining a clear head is the best way to bring my sister's killer to justice.
"I know this guy didn't do it," Hugo says. His fingers over my hand are still immobile, but they twitch like he wants to move them. "He couldn't have been in two places at once. But sometimes, I wish it were him. Is that terrible?"
"Not at all. You're not saying you want an innocent man to pay, you're saying you wish the murder had been simple to solve."
"I guess, yeah." Hugo's fingers inch over my hand, and I think more than anything he wants contact. Physical touch. "Is this ok?" he asks, his fingertips feathering over my skin.
"Yes," I whisper, trying like hell to keep the breathiness out of my voice.
"Do you ever think about what you would say if there comes a day you can look at Maggie's murderer in the face?"
I'm having a hard time focusing on our conversation, so juxtaposed by the feelings his touch is setting off in my body. "I've had fantasies about it. Daydreams, whatever you want to call it. Mostly they consist of me slicing him into pieces."
Hugo's eyes widen. "I have a sword you can borrow."
This draws a smile from me. "What about you? Have you ever thought about what you would say, if given the chance?"
"Only all the time." His fingers have stilled, save for a thumb that runs circles over my skin. "I would say, 'When you murdered my father, you created the day you would die by his son's hand.'"
"Hugo," I murmur. I can't help it. That sentence could only be uttered by somebody with immense pain in their heart. My hand slips out from under his, only to reach up and lightly cup his face. Pain dances behind his eyes, and I feel a renewed sense of determination. I want to find the man who killed Simon De la Vega. I want to give Hugo, and the rest of his family, the chance to heal.
"I know it sounds dramatic, but I wish so badly that I could have been my dad's hero. That somehow, I could have saved him." Tears swim in his eyes, this big, rough man with the tanned forearms and callused hands.
"I understand," I whisper, wrapping him in a hug. His arms encircle me, and we sink into the embrace. I know we are attracted to each other, we have been since that first day, but this is the hug of two people who share a unique burden, who want to put down what we carry, if only briefly.
His chest fills, expanding, before he exhales. But he doesn't let me go. Instead, he turns his face into my hair. He's breathing me in.
I like it. It's everything I can do not to let my palm roam his back, drag my nails up his neck and over his scalp. It's a line I dare not cross, but I want to. My goodness, do I want to.
"There he is," Hugo grounds out. We let go of each other, and I look out the passenger window. The man I saw in the pictures on social media stands on the front porch, hands tucked in the pockets of his khaki pants. He lifts an uncertain hand, waving.
A thrill runs through me. Could this be a step toward understanding more about what happened that day? I hope so.
"Are you ready?" I ask Hugo. This is much more personal for him, and I want him to be ok. As ok as a person can be in this situation .
"As I'll ever be."
Hugo exits the car first, smooth and practiced. I'm not accustomed to climbing from a car so low to the ground, especially in a dress. I only make it so far as to wind my purse strap around my shoulder and place a steadying hand on the doorframe when Hugo appears, opening the door all the way and offering his hand.
There's something about the way he does it without pageantry, like it is second nature, a thing he does.
"Thank you for getting my door," I say, stepping up beside him on the sidewalk.
"I'll always get your door, Mallory."
The declaration makes me feel warm and fuzzy, but I don't have time to dwell in the feeling. We have an audience fifteen feet away.
"Mr. Boylan?" I say, walking up the driveway with Hugo. "I'm Mallory Hawkins, the woman who responded to your listing." We stop a few feet from the man standing in the same place, hands still tucked in his pockets. Gesturing beside me, I say, "This is?—"
"Simon De la Vega," David Boylan wheezes the words, a touch of disbelief and horror. He stumbles back as if he's been punched.
Hugo inhales audibly. "Hugo. Simon's son." The words are a rumble, sheets of pain covering a heap of emotions.
David shakes his head rapidly back-and-forth. "You said you wanted to buy a coin." His panicked eyes find mine. "You...you." The sentence dies.
I feel bad. The police were right. This man is not a killer.
"We are here for the coin, Mr. Boylan. And anything else you can tell me about my dad."
The screen door flies open. Out steps the maker of casseroles, follower of crochet patterns. Paula Boylan. "What's going on out here?" she demands, stepping up to her husband's side.
"Olive Township found me," he mutters.
Daggers form in Paula's gaze, and she sends them our way. "David had nothing to do with what happened there. He's innocent, and you need to leave."
I curl a hand around my midsection, pressing my dress to my body, accentuating my baby bump. For good measure, I lean into my stomach, making it appear bigger than it is. Maybe it's low, using my bump this way, but I want to show David and Paula we aren't a threat. And really, there isn't much that's less threatening than a pregnant woman.
They both see my pregnancy. They both visibly soften. I push my shoulder into Hugo's rigid arm, snake my hand around his elbow and tighten my grip. Hugo looks down at me, and I watch his eyes take in the roundness of my tummy, on display. He softens, too.
Do babies soothe the savage beast? Bring healing to those who need it?
David looks at Hugo with kindness now, no fear. "I told the police everything I know. Everything that took place. "
Hugo nods. "I understand that, but I was so young when it all happened. The events get confused in my mind. Sometimes I don't know what's real, or what I imagined in my nine-year-old brain."
"Iced tea," Paula says suddenly, clapping her hands together. "Why don't you two come on around back, and David will meet you out there. I'll be along shortly with drinks." She smiles graciously. "Perhaps there's more to talk about than we thought."
David looks apprehensive, but he doesn't argue.
Paula disappears inside the house, and David looks at us helplessly.
"I can invent an emergency, if you'd like," Hugo says. "We can go."
After a moment's consideration, David says no. "Your dad was always very nice to me. If there's some way I can help you, I think I should."
"I appreciate that," Hugo responds. "We'll meet you around back."
David disappears into the house. Hugo presses a hand to the small of my back, guiding me along the stone pavers laid out to make a walkway.
The way his hand feels on me, even in a place as well-meaning as the small of my back, has my stomach flipping. I'm blaming the hormones once again, because the alternative is a path I can't begin to travel.
We round the white-sided home, finding David fluffing Grecian blue outdoor pillows on a matching outdoor couch. As we get closer, he says, "Blue is Paula's favorite color. I told her it clashes with everything in this backyard, but she told me to close my eyes and picture it matching."
"I like the way she thinks," I say, because I'm not sure how else to respond.
Paula comes from the house balancing a large serving tray in one hand and a plastic pitcher in the other.
To have something to do, I meet her halfway and take the tray off her hands. In mere minutes she has managed to amass a tray of lemon cookies with lemon curd, miniature brownies, and butter crackers with a cheese ball.
I set the tray on the table between the outdoor furniture, and David helps his wife distribute drinks.
We look at each other now, no food or drinks to distract us. Paula is the first to break. "Well, come on. Dig in." She waves at the food, then points at me. "You, especially. You're eating for two now." Her wagging finger turns on Hugo. "You are, also. Go on and eat. Dad has to keep his stamina up, too."
I stiffen, prepared to correct them, but Hugo doesn't miss a beat. "Better start training myself. I hear those middle of the night feedings can be brutal."
"Middle of the night?" Paula harrumphs. "Try every couple hours like clockwork when they're newborns."
My eyes bulge.
"Don't you worry," Paula pats my arm. "Sounds like he's itching to help you, assuming you pump or use formula."
I pause, waiting for Hugo to finally say something, anything , remotely close to I'm not the father .
He doesn't.
He says, "Mallory is still deciding, but I'll support her whatever she chooses." Then he leans forward, swipes a cracker through the cheese, and hands it to me. "Time to feed you two."
It's the same thing he said to me while I was on the cot, recovering from passing out. It had made me think about how alone Peanut and I were, but now, hearing him say it a second time, it makes me wonder if we have to be alone.
The thought is almost comically stupid. Hugo is handsome, successful, single, and so kind. He doesn't want a woman who's having another man's baby.
I take the cracker from him, murmuring my thanks. It appears I'm going to have to be more careful with my thoughts around him. Rein in my heart a little bit. I don't have the luxury of fantasizing about happily ever afters and fairy tales. Peanut is already down one parent, I can't be mooning around having a crush on an unattainable man when I should be focused on my baby and what I came here to do.
"Hugo," David says, tone serious. "What is it you think I can do for you?"
"I want to hear about what happened that day, from you. My mom has told me, but it was a long time ago. We don't talk about how my dad died. Mostly we talk about how he lived."
"It's probably better that way. To talk about how he lived. He was a great man."
Hugo nods. "I agree. Except, I need more. It's"—he glances at me—"holding me back. "
What? What does he mean by that?
David nods his head like he understands.
I do, too, to a degree. I know what it's like to be held back by grief, by pain. But why did he look at me when he said it?
David lays out one arm on the back of the couch. Paula snuggles in closer to her husband. Providing him comfort.
"I'd been delivering mail that day, and I was on the way back from my route when I got a flat tire on Six Digit Road. It was a pretty straight forward flat, not like I bent the axle or anything. A quick fix and I was on my way. It was the day of the Olive Festival, and I hadn't wanted to miss it. There was a man from a couple towns over coming to show me a French Colonies New World coin he recently purchased. I remember thinking it was going to be a great day, despite the flat tire. Between my favorite prickly pear lemonade stand I knew would be at the festival and getting to see a coin like that, I was happy as a clam." He sighs. "But you know what? It shaped up to be a terrible day. The lemonade wasn't ready when I got there, the guy was a no-show, and that night police officers knocked on my door." Guilt floods his eyes. "Obviously you had it much worse that day."
"Those things can all be upsetting." Hugo offers David the kindest smile.
How does he do it? How does he extend such grace to people? He really is one of the nicest men I've ever met.
"I truly am sorry about what happened to your dad. I meant it when I said he was a good man. Summerhill was on my mail route. As you know, it's a hike from town to your mailbox, and your Dad tried to get out to the Summerhill turn-in as often as he could so I could shave off some time. I was just the mailman, and here he was this big to-do in Olive Township. He valued my time, and me as a person. And then—" David looks away, presses a fist to his mouth. Paula runs a supportive palm up and down his thigh.
I'm struck by a chord of gratitude, genuinely thankful these two found each other.
David composes himself. "They thought I had something to do with it. Declaring me a person-of-interest." He frowns, shakes his head, like even after all this time he can pluck the disbelief out of thin air, feel it anew. "Like I could ever do something so evil. I didn't get the opportunity to grieve because I was too busy defending myself."
Hugo's hand finds my fabric covered thigh, as if he, too, needs to be bolstered. Covering his hand like he did to me in the car, I give him the slightest squeeze.
I'm here .
"I'm sorry you didn't get that opportunity," Hugo says.
"I'm sorry your dad was taken from you."
The men share a sad smile. Inside the house, a telephone rings. Paula bolts upright. "That would be me. I put my ringer on full volume, I'm expecting a call from my daughter." She hustles away, yelling back over her shoulder, "If I don't see you before you leave, it was nice to meet you!"
We echo her words, and David says, "Paula has two children from her first marriage." He looks like he wants something to do with his hands, so he leans forward and takes a lemon cookie, slathering it in lemon curd. "I never did have kids. I wanted to, but the chance didn't present itself." He sighs. "Probably a good thing I didn't. I'm adopted, and I never knew about my birth parents. I worried I carried some awful genetic disease or something."
He's adopted? I don't know that it changes anything, but it's... interesting .
"Did you ever find anything out about your birth parents?" I ask. With a little digging, he might've been able to learn if there was any genetic reason he shouldn't have kids.
"I tried looking, once. A long time ago. I learned I have a twin sister, who was also given away at birth. But there was nothing to go on. The adoptions were closed."
Without thinking about it, I rub a hand over my stomach. "Have you ever thought about doing one of those DNA tests? Sorry"—I make a face—"I'm endlessly curious."
David doesn't seem like he minds. "I've considered it, but there's a lot that comes with the results of something like that. Some closets are better left closed, you know?"
I understand what he's saying, but I wholeheartedly disagree. I respect his opinion, though, so I drop it.
David and Hugo talk a little longer. David asks questions about Olive Township, about some of the people, including Margaret. "She still whipping up the best sandwiches in the state?"
Hugo nods. "Couldn't stop her if you tried. "
The conversation lulls. It's time to leave.
We thank David for his time, his willingness to talk. He walks us around to the front of his house, pausing in front of Hugo's car.
From his pocket, he produces a small box and hands it to me. "Take this," he says. "The start of your baby's collection."
I open it, finding the coin I came here for. When I reach into my purse, David declines.
"Consider it a gift," he says.
Of course, I cry. If there were one symptom of pregnancy I could get rid of, it would be these tears with a mind of their own.
"Sorry," I apologize, shrugging and swiping at my face. And then I do the most embarrassing thing, but also possibly the most right thing. I throw my arms around him. This man lost so much being wrongly suspected.
David startles at first, but he returns the hug. When we pull apart, he looks happier. Lighter. Hugo offers him a hand, and they shake.
With a final goodbye, David retreats into his home. Hugo gets my door like he said he would.
I'm buckling my seat belt when Hugo's pinky finger slides around mine. His free hand brushes over my cheeks, swiping away any remaining moisture. Neither of us speak. The moment does not need words spoken aloud.
I'm here for you .
The air conditioning hits us on blast as Hugo starts the car and drives away. It's not hot outside, but I appreciate the stream of cold air against my skin.
It's a good reminder of where we are, and what it is we're doing.