23. Mallory
Chapter 23
Mallory
Birdsong awakens me.
Sunlight, full and strong in a swath of bright yellow, pours through the window. A slight breeze runs through the tall tree outside, ruffling the tightly wound purple buds. In the distance, the olive orchard runs on and on, endless.
This bed is more comfortable than the inn, and possibly more comfortable than my bed back home.
I stretch out, starfish, point my toes. Allow myself to enjoy this bliss. I refuse to think about the photos on my phone. My middle of the night exodus from the inn, the danger that lurked while I slept. A few more moments of peace is all I'm after.
My eyes close, and I listen to the quiet, punctuated only by the melody of the birds in the tree. It's?—
My hand flies to my stomach, neck craning to see down to my midsection .
A flutter, once more. Like a fish swimming, or the jerky movements of a butterfly.
"Hey, Peanut," I whisper, smile shaking. Tears burn my eyes. "I'm here." My hands run over my belly, head dropping back on the pillow. "We had a scary night, didn't we?" My gaze finds the window, the natural beauty beyond. "But we're ok now, aren't we?"
Thanks to Hugo.
One more flutter, and a tear leaking from the corner of my eye.
I wait and wait, hoping for another movement, but that's it. Peanut is finished with the somersaults.
Reluctantly, I tear myself from the bed I could luxuriate in all day. I don't know what time it is, but based on how sunny it is outside, I'm guessing it's somewhere around midday.
Once I'm in the bathroom, I take a long, hot shower under water pressure that is just right. The towels are fluffy, soft. Perfect. I'm like Goldilocks, except I've been invited to stay.
I dress and add moisturizer to my face, letting my hair air dry. Finding my phone in my purse, I see that it's a little after noon. I also have a missed FaceTime call from Jolene, but the hunger I'm feeling supersedes a return call for now. She is going to lose her mind when I tell her what happened.
I was so tired when we arrived early this morning, I didn't spend any time looking around myself.
The hallway where the bedrooms are opens up to a dining room on the left, and a living room beyond that. It's an open floor plan, with tall, large windows allowing incredible views of the orchard. The floor is a light-colored wood, with a large dining room table, and beyond that, two cozy-looking couches oriented in an L-shape. There is a stone fireplace, and above it, four swords on four separate display racks. They all have different shapes, and now I'm making a mental note to ask if they have different names.
My growling stomach propels me out of the living room in search of the kitchen.
When I find the kitchen, I'm stunned. It's gorgeous, something out of a magazine. Matte black cabinets with copper handles, four of them with glass fronts to show off the dinnerware inside. The counter is one solid piece of finished wood, long and gleaming, with a live edge at the far end. The whole vibe is upscale masculine.
I open up the fridge, anticipating a selection of food fit for a bachelor. Just because the kitchen surfaces are stunning doesn't mean what's happening on the interior matches. A loaf of stale bread and a jar of outdated salad dressing wouldn't have surprised me, but Hugo has a fridge like a home chef. It appears he's perfectly capable of using this fancy kitchen.
Fresh herbs, wrapped in bags and placed in jars of water. Cut vegetables in a bin with separate compartments. Soda waters lined up like soldiers. Cuts of raw meat wrapped in paper and plastic, stored in a separate container. I half-expect his cheese drawer to say Fromagerie on it. It doesn't, but he does have a wedge of real parmesan, and feta imported from Greece .
This is not the fridge of a bachelor enjoying his bachelorhood. This is the fridge of a real man. An adult.
How is it after all this time, Hugo is single? He's... well, he's everything .
I perform a quick discovery of the kitchen, opening drawers and cabinets, familiarizing myself with where things are located. After that, I whip up a veggie omelet with sourdough toast and breakfast sausage. The only thing missing is decaf coffee, and I'm already jonesing for the vanilla latte Sal made me yesterday.
Was it really only yesterday? So much has happened since then. I officially reversed the 'Vivi hates Mallory' train, kept up my yearly tradition on Maggie's birthday, had my privacy violated by an unknown person, and woke up here this morning, in Hugo's home.
It's enough to make my head spin. Pouring myself an ice-cold glass of water from the fridge, I settle onto a stool tucked under the overhang of the kitchen island.
Time to call Jolene.
I take a big bite of my lunch and pull a three-wick candle closer, propping my phone against it. The call rings and rings, and I stare out at the olive orchard beyond the picture window over the sink. Hugo's home is beautiful, like a little slice of a fairy tale dropped in the middle of the Sonoran Desert.
"Hey," Jolene says, voice snapping my attention back to the screen. "Where are you?"
I swallow. "Hugo's kitchen."
Jolene's eyebrows cinch. "You're in Hugo's kitchen with wet hair because...? "
I explain in detail what happened last night, alternating getting the story out with eating my food while it's warm. When I'm finished, Jolene hammers me with question after question, lawyer mode activated.
What time did this occur? Where did you go prior to the inn? Who did you see when you went to those places? Did you speak to anybody when you arrived at the inn?
Jolene has her notepad out, recording my answers.
"Do you clearly remember locking your door?" she asks.
"I wish I could say I remember, but I don't. I tripped when I walked in and everything went flying, and I was so concerned with catching myself and not hurting Peanut. I have no specific memory of locking the door."
Jolene nods, pen moving across the paper.
The possibility that I did not lock the hotel room door, that it's me who exposed myself and my baby to potential harm, makes me sick. "Jolene, I am a terrible mother. Last night could have been one hundred times worse. How could I forget to lock the door?"
"You don't know if that's what happened," she reminds me. "But also, please cut yourself some slack. Yesterday was Maggie's birthday. I've known you for a long time, so I can confirm that you are a basket case on that day. Now," she says, adopting her stern tone. "Let's keep going. Focus on facts. Not feelings. Who else had access to the room besides you?"
"Everybody, if I left the room unlocked." The idea makes me want to tear my hair out .
"For argument's sake, let's assume the room was locked. Who has access?"
"The hotel manager, I suppose. Whatever key housekeeping uses to service the room." As I say it, I picture Braxton. He was working last night. He didn't have a single word to say to me when I returned to the inn, arms full as I walked through the lobby. And then later, he tried to tell me I needed to check out, and Hugo shut him down. "The night manager probably has access to a master key. I got a weird vibe from him the first time I met him."
The top of Jolene's head moves like she's nodding, pen scribbling. "What behavior did you find objectionable?"
I love Jolene in lawyer mode. She is such a boss.
"He looks at me longer than is socially acceptable. He's unfriendly. His whole vibe is very off-putting. It's probably why he works at night."
Jolene finishes writing down what I'm saying, her gaze refocusing on the screen. "Those are opinions."
I blow out a breath. "I know."
She's biting the side of her lip, thinking. "Why take pictures with your phone? Let's assume whoever did this is sexually perverse. Taking photos of a woman sleeping may arouse them. If that were the case, he would've taken them with his phone. Unless," she holds one finger up, "he took them with both phones. Maybe he gets off on picturing you being scared when you find the photos."
"Ugh," I groan. "This gets worse the longer we talk about it. I'm never leaving the house again. "
"I know, I know, it's disgusting, but stick with me here. I think you have two possibilities. One, he took photos with both phones, in which case he's likely a pervert. Two, he only took photos with your phone, in which case?—"
"It's a scare tactic," I finish.
"Exactly. Now, who would want you scared? And scared enough to do what, exactly?"
"Someone who knows why I'm in Olive Township."
"Yep. Maybe someone who has information and doesn't want it discovered, or?—"
"The person who killed Simon De la Vega."
We stare at each other, her caramel eyes looking meaningfully into my chocolate color. "You know what this means. You're onto something. Someone played their hand."
"Maybe," I hedge, because if there's one thing I've learned, it's to err on the side of caution. We might deal in facts, but emotions are rarely far behind. Emotions can alter stories, exaggerate events, place hope where none should exist.
"Maybe," she agrees. "And maybe that means we can start using this to create episodes. We need them," she reminds me, not that I need reminding. I am all too aware of our download stats, our decrease in podcast subscribers.
"I'm going to begin working on backstory, on creating the story around what happened. But also, I'm bringing in a digital marketing agency. "
My eyes bulge. "Jolene, we've talked about this. We can?—"
"No, we can't. I mean this with all the love in the world. Get out of your own way."
"That did not sound loving."
"Tough love, toots. Now, listen. I did some work for a company called P Squared Marketing. Legal stuff. A majority of their business is focused on brick and mortar concepts, but I asked if they ever work on promoting podcasts or other forms of media. The owner, Paisley, told me they have experience creating a social media campaign for an aspiring author, and he now has a publishing deal." Jolene pauses, giving me a chance to react.
"That's really cool, but I don't see what it has to do with us."
"I asked if she'd have a meeting with us. Over the computer, obviously, since you're in Olive Township."
My first inclination is to decline, but I can't stand to dash the pleading hope on Jolene's face. "One meeting," I concede. Jolene has been by my side since college, indulging me in my crazy dream to start a podcast. I owe her at least a meeting with a marketing company.
Jolene breathes a sigh of relief. "I'll text you the details and email over the meeting link. I better skedaddle, my lunch break is up in a few."
"But you didn't eat lunch."
"I run on coffee, legalese, and the occasional cigarette that I fucking hate but everyone else does it so I do it, too." She grins at my shaking head. "I'm not happy that you're choosing not to tell the police about your photos. Stay there with Hugo, alright? Don't go back to that hotel."
"Obviously. But I can't stay here. There's another place in town. A lot nicer than the inn."
"Why can't you stay here?" Hugo's voice curls over my shoulders.