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 theMallory's reason for being herefiltration 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 fingersreach 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.
