Jolene finishes her bite. "Anything beats this frozen dinner." She frowns and pushes away the food. "Eat some olives for me tomorrow."
I promise her I will, and we hang up.
I spend the next two hours poring over every piece of information I've gathered about the De la Vegas. Tomorrow is a big deal, and although I'm shooting for casual vibes, I won't bring anything less than my A game.
When dinnertime rolls around, I take a break and venture out. I spend a little time acquainting myself with Olive Avenue, the heart of the town, before heading back to Good Thyme Café. I'm a creature of habit, and when I find something I like, I stick with it.
Annie, my server from this morning, is still working. She spots me as she's refilling waters at a table, sending me a wave. When my to-go order is ready, she's the person who brings it to me.
"Are you working a double?" I ask, the restaurant shorthand coming back to me. I put myself through college waiting tables at a restaurant in Phoenix.
"Short-staffed," she shrugs. "Plus, I need the money."
A guy at one of Annie's other tables waves a hand her direction, like he needs something. She gives him a signal forone momentand turns back to me, giving me a look that saysdid you need anything else?
"I'll pay my bill and be out of your hair," I remind her. "I'm sure you have a million things to do."
"Oh!" Her eyes are wide. "I forgot you don't know."
"Know what?"
"Hugo said you don't have a bill here." Annie grins, like Hugo's sly move makes her happy. "Everything goes on his tab."
Shock flutters through me. And then something warm, and a little fuzzy. Hugo was taking care of me. And Peanut.
"Have a nice night," Annie adds, pivoting on her heel and hurrying back to her section.
I don't have Hugo's phone number, so I send him an email as soon as I'm back in my room.
To: Hugo De la Vega
From: Mallory Hawkins
Thank you for dinner.
Mallory & Peanut
Chapter 8
Mallory
The risein elevation on the drive out to Summerhill delivers a spectacular view of Olive Township. A mountain range towers to the east, and west, past the acres upon acres of olive trees, is nothing but desert. Eventually that barren desert gives way to Phoenix city limits. Out here, it feels like another world.
The romance of the orchard makes it hard to imagine the patriarch of the De la Vega family could be taken so violently.
Around the bend in the road, the main buildings of the olive mill come into view. From my reading, and copious time spent on the Summerhill website, I know these first buildings are the agrotourism side of the business. A cute little store selling flavored olive oil and other goods, a new wedding venue, a restaurant. Beyond these structures, set back in the distance, is the De la Vega household.
As instructed, I wind my way around the commercialbuildings. I let off the gas pedal, trying not to kick up dust, but it's useless. This is still the desert, after all. Dust is inevitable.
Still, I go slowly. An odd feeling bubbles up in my belly, a nausea I know doesn't truly have bite.
Nerves.
I'm not usually nervous when speaking with friends or family of the victims, but this is different. This is personal.
Sonya De la Vega may have thought she was ready to speak about her husband, but what if she answers the door, takes one look at me and feels the weight of what she thought she could do, and changes her mind?
I take a deep breath as I steel myself, rolling to a stop in front of the home.
