"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 innocentman 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. Iwant 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.
