26. Hugo
Chapter 26
Hugo
Mallory, my friend , sits a foot from me. The car window is down, the wind swirling those dark locks around her face. Her brows are furrowed, her cheekbones taut. I wonder if she realizes she is chewing the side of her bottom lip. Is she thinking about what happened to her last night? I know I haven't been able to go more than a few minutes without having it invade my mind. Not only the events, but the possibilities.
The second I sat my ass in the desk chair at the Summerhill on-site office, I called Penn. He was huffing and puffing when he answered my call, out on a run with Slim Jim, his Belgian Malinois. Penn lives closer to town, and closer to the Olive Inn. For Daisy's safety, I wanted him to know what happened to Mallory. I also called Vivi, made sure she knew.
Penn, being the person he is, suggested he pay Braxton a visit. "If it wasn't him, he would have seen somebody walking through that lobby. "
I told him Mallory is trying for as little disruption to the town as possible, and he had some choice words for her decision. "I'm not making any promises. If I see that fucker so much as sneeze near Daisy, it's on." I can't deny him that, especially when it's exactly what I want to do.
"What are you thinking about over there?" I ask Mallory.
"Last night," she answers, her eyes finding mine. We share a long look before I redirect my gaze to the road. The look may have only lasted a few seconds, but I saw fire in her eyes.
"What about it?" I ask, a tightness to my tone. My fingers curl on the steering wheel, the same way they did early this morning when the event was fresh. Mallory isn't the only one furious at the idea of her and Peanut being encroached upon.
"Too many emotions to name, honestly. And I have thoughts... many thoughts. Namely, what if whoever did this isn't simply a perv looking to—" she cuts off, grimacing. "I don't want to finish that sentence. What if someone's sending me a message?"
A message? I hadn't considered that. My thoughts started and ended with a sicko.
"What kind of message?"
"Maybe somebody found out what I'm doing here, and they don't like it. Maybe they were trying to scare me into leaving."
My fingernails scrape against the scruff on my jaw. I hadn't bothered to shave after the shower I took, I was too antsy to get back out to Mallory. To take her anywhere she might need to go. "Why would anybody in this town care what you were doing?"
Using extra care, I take the turn off Summerhill Road, heading for town. Mallory is quiet, almost as if she doesn't want to answer me. Almost as if she would prefer I reach her conclusion on my own.
When I don't have anything to say, Mallory drums her fingertips on her thighs and says, "My job is kind of like putting together a puzzle. I try different pieces to see if they fit, and eventually that means enough pieces fit together to form a picture. That also means I try a lot of pieces that don't fit together. Solving an unsolved crime, or any crime, really, means there are usually many failed attempts to fit enough puzzle pieces together to reach the truth."
"Got it." I nod. "Why do I feel like you're setting me up to receive bad news?"
She shakes her head, and the gold hoop earrings she wears swing. "I'm laying down a foundation of knowledge. It won't do either of us any good if I tell you what I'm thinking without preparing you."
"Consider me prepared." I'm not though. In truth, I feel a little bit sick to my stomach. Mallory's been at this for a long time, but every step is new to me.
"I think it's worth considering that whoever took those photos of me last night was trying to scare me into leaving because they found out I'm here to learn about your dad, and that would only matter if?—"
The lightbulb goes on in my head, the answer screaming at me. "If there was something to learn. "
A wedge forms in my throat as I do my best to grapple with a possibility I wish were impossible. "That would mean someone in Olive Township either has information about what happened, or—" I cut off, blinking hard. I can't keep driving.
Slowing, I pull over onto the shoulder of the road and shift to Park. Propping my elbow on the car door, I press a fist to my mouth, and say, "Or it means the person who killed him still lives in Olive Township. And if that were true, it would mean I have been living around them my whole life." My voice wobbles. Cracks.
"Hugo," Mallory murmurs. She unbuckles her seat belt, tenderly touches my face. I turn toward her, letting her cup my cheeks. Her touch is soft. Soothing. "All of this is an attempt to put the puzzle together. We're talking out loud, seeing if the pieces fit. I know this is asking a lot of you, but try to remember these are queries, not conclusions."
She's right. Lord, she's smart. Balanced. Levelheaded. Strong.
"Alright," I answer, my gaze falling over her face. She's so beautiful it hurts. No makeup face. And those shoulders, exposed by yet another loose-fitting sundress.
I get a sudden idea. "What do you think about going somewhere a little further than Olive Township?"
"I'm game," she answers, a question in her eyes.
"I think you should go shopping."
Her eyes narrow at me. "You don't like my clothes?"
"That's not what I said." I point at her waist. "Buckle up. "
"I have clothes, you know." The click of her buckle connecting is the only sound, then she says, "I bought a few more things when I extended my stay the first time."
"You're going to need more clothes. More everything."
She scoffs. "And why is that?"
"Because I'm going to ask you to stay longer. Keep trying puzzle pieces."
She fights a smile. "Is that right? When do you plan on asking me?"
I fight the same smile. What is it about this woman that has me feeling ok even though there is the looming possibility that something terrible may have been happening under my nose all these years? It's like the terrible thing can still exist, but facing it with Mallory makes it bearable. Makes it into something that won't take me down.
"When the time is right," I tell her. And ok, yeah, I'm flirting. Friends can flirt, right?
Mallory comes out of the dressing room in a dress that shows off her pregnancy. Or maybe it doesn't show it off as much as it doesn't hide it. In fact, everything she has tried on for the last two hours we've been shopping has highlighted the small bump she sports. As a bonus to me, everything she's tried on has also shown off her perfect ass, round and generous, and begging to be touched by me.
It is absolutely, one hundred percent not my hands that are begging to touch her ass. Not at all.
Mallory seems to prefer dresses and skirts, and when the saleswoman approaches with maternity skirts, Mallory balks. "There's a pouch," she says, nose scrunching as she pinches the draping fabric on the front of the skirt.
"That's for your belly, dear," the woman says sweetly. "Just wait until you really pop. These non-maternity stretchy skirts you've been trying on won't cover you."
Mallory's jaw drops. The woman retreats, and Mallory turns her disbelieving eyes on me.
"Did Vivi wear stuff like this?" She holds up the skirt the saleswoman brought her. She pulls away the loose fabric, and it really does resemble a pouch. "I could put my joey in here and hop away."
Laughing, I point at her belly. "I think you are supposed to do exactly that."
"I'm not a marsupial," she huffs, holding the skirt out in front of her. She examines it, sighing. "I guess I'll need stuff like this eventually. It's hard to believe I'll be big enough to fit into it." She retreats into the fitting room with the new items.
I sit back in the upholstered chair, crossing one leg over the other, trying to figure out what has me taking a pregnant woman shopping for maternity clothes on a Monday afternoon when I have a business to run. And, the even bigger question, why do I like it so much ?
"Hugo?" Mallory calls from behind a closed door.
I sit up, glancing around. The sales attendants are busy helping other people, and besides, Mallory did not call for them. She called for me.
"Yeah?" I ask, coming to stand outside her door.
"I feel supremely stupid, but I need some assistance."
I swallow. The teenager in me perks up, recalling fitting room fantasies that most definitely will not be taking place today.
"What can I help you with?"
"Can you come in?"
"Uh." I look again at the saleswomen. Only one is in my line of sight, and she is busy. "Sure."
There's the turn of a lock, and the door opens an inch. Mallory says, "You'll have to open it the rest of the way. I need my hands."
What? She needs her hands? For what?
Pressing a palm flat to the door, I push it open just enough so I can slip through, but not so much that anybody else can see in.
Mallory stands with her back to me. Her gaze is on the ground, long, dark hair falling over her shoulders in two separate waves. I close the door and lock it behind me, then turn to face her. The mirror on the opposite end of the fitting room allows me a full view of Mallory's front. She lifts her head to look at me, causing her hair to follow, revealing inch after inch of skin. From the top of her rib cage down, she is covered by the dress she was just in. From the top of her rib cage up, she is covered only by her hands. Except her hands are too small to do the job adequately, and round flesh spills out on all sides.
Force my eyes to stay on hers in the mirror. That's what I have to do right now. And even though I'm focusing on her like my life depends on it, guess what I can still see in my central vision?
"What's the problem?" I croak. This is it. This is how I die. A half-glimpse of Mallory's breasts were enough to do me in.
"The zipper is stuck." Mortification twists her tone, makes her sound pained.
Grateful to have something else to look at, I search out the zipper running down the middle of her back.
Yep. It's more than stuck. It's broken. "I'm going to have to rip the dress off you."
"What?" she asks, alarmed.
"The zipper is totally broken. You must have really been fighting with it."
She blows out a frustrated breath. "Like wrestling a hyena."
I take one side of the hanging fabric in each hand, getting a good grip on it. "I think you won the match," I say, giving the fabric a forceful yank. The sound of ripping fabric fills the air, but it's only an inch. I repeat the motion, using more force this time. The tear of fabric sounds different this time, longer and somehow sexy. The rip goes down the seam, all the way to the top of the red thong Mallory wears. Because of course she does.
I rake a hand over my face. "Your favorite color is red, isn't it? "
She nods. "Red like my face right now."
I meet her eyes in the mirror, noting the embarrassment, but something else, too. A blossoming heat. Our locked gazes persist, time slows. My voice comes out like gravel. "Red is my favorite color, too." Then I slip out, giving Mallory her privacy. Basically, I run away.
I don't know much about life. I'm a guy who won a gold medal in a sport most people know little about, and I've retired to live a quiet life carrying on my family's legacy. But I do know one thing for certain.
When it comes to Mallory, I am so fucked.
She emerges from the dressing room a few minutes later, flustered. The red has not faded from her cheeks. Not one bit.
"How did everything work out for you?" The saleswoman's saccharine voice cuts in.
"Good," Mallory says. "Mostly. I had a problem with a zipper, but, um"—her eyes laser in on me—"I worked it out."
The saleswoman's smile falters. "Oh no! I hope I didn't miss your distress signal."
Mallory looks at me again. "You didn't. I had a knight in shining armor."
The woman takes the stack of clothes from Mallory, marching to the register.
I can't help my smirk. "I'm a knight?"
Mallory holds up two fingers. "Two saves in fewer than twenty-four hours."
Together we walk to the register. "Let's hope there aren't any more ever again. "
"I don't kn-ow," she warbles the last word. "I will definitely be needing help reaching things on top shelves. And if I see a spider, all bets are off. I'll be requiring the services of my knight, pronto."
My chest swells. My shoulders straighten. Perhaps I walk with a bit more swagger.
She called me her knight.
Her knight.
We reach the counter where the woman stands, ringing up Mallory's stack of clothing.
"One of these items is in very bad shape," she says, suspicious gaze darting between me and Mallory.
"That would be the zipper problem I had," Mallory says sheepishly.
"We have tools for zipper problems." The woman eyes me before returning her gaze to Mallory. "Looks like you had your own tool for solving your zipper problem ."
She says it in a way that's part amused, part I know what you did .
Mallory laughs, but it's not her real laugh. She thumbs at me. "He's not just a pretty face," she jokes.
Mallory hasn't caught on that the saleswoman thinks we got busy in the fitting room, and since her cheeks are still pink (adding to the evidence of our escapade) I'm not planning on telling her.
The saleswoman recites the total. I grab my wallet, brandishing my card before Mallory can say a word.
"What? Hugo. No."
"Too late." I shrug, and then there's the electronic sound of a payment accepted .
Mallory frowns. "I wasn't expecting that."
"I know you weren't." I take the two large bags off the counter, heading for the exit. "I made a lot of money fencing. First the gold medal, and then a lucrative cereal box brand deal, among others. I bought my car, and remodeled my house into a place that feels like home, and now there's nothing more I need. Really."
"Well, thank you. I'm not used to being around a person who does nice things so easily."
"That's too bad, Mallory. Because you deserve it."
She does. She really does. Mallory wants to solve my dad's murder. Her sister's, too. She's not here making money.
I hold open the door for her, and we step into the cool early evening. It's that odd time of year in the desert, when the day is warm but drops to chilly the moment the sun disappears. "How does a podcast make money?"
"Sponsorships. Advertising. But how many of those we get depend on how many downloads we receive." Mallory worries her bottom lip with her teeth. "Our numbers have been steadily decreasing. Jolene wants to bring in a digital marketer. Her goal is to get picked up by a podcast network, but right now we don't have the numbers for it."
We arrive at my car, and I open her door. Mallory slides in, and I place her bags in the trunk. "How did you get into podcasting?" I ask, when we're exiting the parking lot.
"I took psychology classes when I first got to college, and I was fascinated. But instead of going toward psychology, I got a degree in journalism and became an investigative reporter. Then I wrote an article about a true crime case that helped to exonerate the woman who had been found guilty and imprisoned. After that, Case Files was born."
I stare at her in awe. "That's one of the coolest things I've ever heard. You should walk around telling that story to everybody you meet."
"Right, the same way you tell everybody you meet that you're a gold medal Olympian?"
"That's different," I argue.
"How?" she shoots back.
"One is bragging, the other is just a really cool story."
Mallory looks south as I take the on-ramp for the freeway. "Do you see that little mountain over there?" She points at a large hill in the near-distance. "My mom and her husband have a house at the base of it."
"Do you want to stop and visit?"
Mallory shakes her head, sad but determined. "We don't talk much. After Maggie died, my mom couldn't bear to look at me. Fourteen years later, and she still can't."
"Because she's so fucked up over what happened?"
Mallory goes silent. Just when I think she's finished talking, she says in a voice so full of pain it rips my heart out, too. "Because it was my fault."
That makes me mad. Not at Mallory, but for Mallory. I understand her thinking that way when she was a kid, because I did the same. It's not abnormal for a child to find a way to blame themselves. But it has been fourteen years. Has nobody stepped up and told Mallory she's not to blame? And is Mallory really going to sit there and shoulder the blame? The guilt alone must be eating her alive.
"You are not responsible for what happened to Maggie. At all."
"I left her alone that day. I took her to the water park, and I was supposed to watch out for her, but I didn't."
If what Mallory needs is for me to defend her to herself, I will. I'll take her away from skeezy night managers, I'll rip dresses with broken zippers, and I'll keep her from continuing to play this unhealthy narrative she's spent far too long believing.
"Mallory," I say with every ounce of seriousness in my body. "If I wasn't driving in five lanes of traffic going seventy-five miles an hour, I would look you in the eyes while I say this: your sister died because a crazed lunatic decided to end her life. The same way my dad died. You didn't cause that. You didn't make it happen. You didn't ask that psychopath to make that choice. And the way your mom has acted since it happened is reflective of her, not of you. She's missing out on you, and that's really fucking sad."
Tears roll down Mallory's cheeks, and she dashes them away with the backs of her hands. Fucking traffic. Fuck this freeway. I want to hold her. Wipe her tears.
"Thank you," she says. "That's three times." I feel her eyes on me, the warmth of her gaze seeping into me. "Three times you've rescued me."
If my heart had biceps, it would be flexing them right now. That is how much I feel like Mallory's hero.
I am so far beyond fucked, I can't even see it in my rearview anymore.